A Sea of Waking Dreams
by Adara-chan67
Summary: Sequel to "Paint Around the Empty Space." Dean and Sam are having a hard time of it, even with the help of the Leandros brothers. And it only gets worse when retribution comes knocking at their door. Cloudy!Limp!Sam, Angsty!Worried!Dean.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sam, Dean, the Leandros brothers, or any other names you may recognize._

_Characters: Sam, Dean, Cal, Niko, and God knows who else_

_Setting: Between Hunted and AHBL, two days after the end of Paint Around the Empty Space_

_Warnings: Possibly devastating amounts of Sam cuteness, but that might only be if you're me…_

* * *

Prologue

The light actually flooded the room, which was surprising. The man who'd flipped the switch wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't that. Maybe he'd thought the lights would be dim, gloomy, depressing. Or maybe he'd been sure that they wouldn't turn on at all, as broken and pointless as he himself was now.

But the lights worked as well as they ever had, and the man grimaced under their harsh brightness as he stepped over the threshold, feeling like the worst kind of trespasser—the kind that tears through a place that should be sacred, packing up memories in unadorned boxes and shattering the fragile remains of what had once been pure, human life.

In truth, that wasn't the man's motive at all. His true purpose was clear in every movement: the light steps that couldn't have alerted even the most vigilant; the hesitation before moving carefully around the pile of clothing In the middle of the floor to avoid having to relocate it; the gentle brush of fingers over the pile of books on the end table.

The man walked slowly through the apartment, touching everything once, sometimes lingering over a certain object, sometimes moving on quickly. Eventually, he ended up in the bedroom, his destination all along. Once again he repeated the process of touching everything, and then he walked over and sat down on the bed.

As if it had been his intention the whole time he reached over to the nightstand and lifted the only thing on it besides the alarm clock and the lamp. He held the picture reverently, staring, not at himself or his late wife, but at the slight, young girl between them. His fingers brushed over the face framed by long red hair, the green eyes snapping vibrantly out at him.

He did not cry; he was past crying now.

He was ready to get even.

* * *

_Author's Note: Sorry, it's kind of a lame start. I know. But it's only the prologue!_

_Also, I know it took a little longer to get up than I said it would. Truth is, I'm still kind of feeling my way on this one, since it was entirely spur-of-the-moment and all. Hope you liked it anyways!_

_Reviews make Sam give a big pretty grin!_


	2. New Habits

Chapter 1

"Total's fifteen thirty-seven."

Dean grunted and dug out his wallet. He paid the goofy-looking kid, took the box, and closed the door without a word.

"That was rude," Sam observed from where he lay on the bed, one arm draped over his stomach, the other splinted and lying at his side. Words that should've sounded accusing or scolding instead fell like stones, a flat monotone that was becoming all too familiar.

Dean grimaced inside and fought to keep his voice light. "Yeah, whatever. Come get some pizza, Sammy."

At the last word, Sam's eyes shone, suspiciously damp-looking—that was becoming familiar, too. He sat up slowly, as if testing the waters, and then swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself to his feet. He swayed, and automatically Dean went to brace him. Sam let him do it without complaint—just another new thing to get used to.

Finally, though, Sam was settled at their tiny table, eating pizza that Dean had ordered covered in fruit-and-vegetable toppings, content to eat things he hated if it meant Sam building up his health again. Sam also had a salad, although Dean had to point it out and tell him to eat it before he actually picked up the fork.

Once Sam was at last situated and looked as if he would keep eating without having to be told when to take a bite and when to drink some water, Dean got his own pizza and walked over to sit down on the bed, watching Sam's back and thinking.

It had been a couple of days since Sam returned to him—both mentally _and_ physically as opposed to just the latter—but this was the first time he'd actually eaten a decent meal. Sam had spent most of yesterday sleeping, and all day today Dean had been trying to de-clingify him long enough to get them both decently showered, shaved, and clothed. It had taken most of the day, but finally they were both clean and freshly clothed and looked much less like refugees from a recently-bombed third-world country and Dean, for one, felt a lot better. He was pretty sure Sam did, too.

Physically, at least.

Dean had seen it coming, so it wasn't exactly a surprise when Sam twisted around in his chair and looked to make sure big brother was still behind him. Dean gave him a reassuring smile, and Sam quirked his lips in return and said, "You were being really quiet."

"Sorry, Sammy, I forgot," Dean said truthfully. And he really _had_ forgotten to make the small, random noises for Sam to pick up when they weren't directly facing each other—the ones that had become habit in the last couple of days.

"Don't worry. You were just really quiet."

Sam went back to eating then, and Dean went back to thinking.

The fact was, he wasn't really sure how to proceed from here. Inside the four walls of this motel room, it was different. It was close, confined, safe—a place where Sam could always narrow down the places to find him, and vice versa. But he had no idea how either of them would deal with the real world, with other people, with _jobs._

Dean didn't even know how to begin preparing them for that.

Sam shifted a little in his seat then, and Dean deliberately shuffled the sheets a little to calm him. He considered telling Sam to just move his chair, but—well, how would the kid ever become independent again without taking the little steps like eating on his own?

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Getting Sam back to being able to go out on his own, to deal with everyday things, to be okay without his eyes clapped on his brother twenty-four-seven.

The problem was, Dean wasn't sure how to make that happen, except that he should probably start by making Sam _talk._

Which, by the way, was another problem. Usually, Sam wouldn't shut up. He could go on about his feelings 'til Gabriel blew his horn—when it suited him. But Dean had learned after Jess's death that the things that _really_ hurt him—the very things he needed to share most—Sam kept close to his chest.

And it looked like he'd added another checkmark—or three—to that category.

But this wasn't something they could ignore. Dean had gone—well, _kind_ of gone—to hell, and Sam had gone insane. Had spent three days in the psych ward at the hospital. Had broken out of that same ward with actual violence against other human beings. Had _killed_ other human beings.

It was almost impossible to _comprehend_, much less _talk_ about, but it also couldn't be ignored.

He just…wished he could figure out where to _start._

XXX

That night, Sam had another nightmare.

That wasn't exactly anything new, of course. Sam had been dealing with recurring nightmares since he was a kid, and they'd only gotten worse since Jessica died. Dean was way too used to being yanked from sleep by Sam's hoarse yells as he thrashed his way through whatever battles he fought in his dreams.

Thing was, Sam didn't wake up screaming these days. He didn't shout in his sleep at all. No, it was much worse now.

Because now, Sam _cried._ Actual, full-on floods of tears, accompanied by small whimpers and intelligible murmurs. And Dean could never bring him out of it—he had no choice but to wait until the kid jerked himself free of the tangle before he could do something.

Of course, there was precious little he could do even then. Sam would roll over in the bed (Dean would really have to see about getting them moved to a king room if they were gonna keep ending up in the same one like this) and bury his face in Dean's shoulder. Dean could only hold him while he shook and sobbed, could only bury his fingers in Sam's hair and feel furious with himself and the world for letting his _happen._

And then Sam would finally spend all his tears and fall back asleep before Dean could figure out what to say to him.

But tonight was going to be different. Dean had vowed to _make_ it different earlier, when he'd been watching Sam eat and wondering if they were going to be able to get past this one. So tonight, Dean stayed awake long after Sam had fallen asleep, waiting for the nightmare to hit and then, when it did, for Sam to fight his way through it.

After a few endless minutes of tossing and turning, wincing when he landed on his bad arm, muttering and frowning—after a few minutes of all that, Sam's eyes snapped open and, as expected, he rolled over until his face was hidden in Dean's shoulder. Dean slid an arm around him and tightened it, easily suppressing the usual flicker of embarrassment, and waited.

He'd done this a few times now—they happened multiple times a night—so he was able to sense the moments between when Sam's tears slowed and when he drifted off again, and seize his chance.

"So what'd you dream about?"

Sam stiffened, obvious not having expected him to break pattern and speak, and din't answer.

"Sam?"

Sam just buried his face deeper and stayed silent. Dean sighed.

"C'mon. Don't do that. Sammy…"

It was a low blow and he knew it. Since he'd come back Sam had taken to reacting to his nickname almost with awe, and Dean knew it would probably break down every wall he had. But Dean refused to feel bad about it—he was doing what needed to be done, that was all.

Sure enough, Sam looked up at the name, his eyes still wet and his face damp. He answered almost instantly. "I don't want to tell you."

Dean flinched, feeling a little hurt even though he knew it was stupid. Sam hadn't been trying to hurt him—it'd probably kill him if he found out he had. That was just what he did now. He said exactly what was on his mind, without sugarcoating it the way almost everyone naturally did. It was as if that part of his mind had been stripped away, leaving only frank honestly.

Dean hoped he'd break that habit eventually. It was damn unsettling.

"Why not, Sam?"

"Because it'll make you feel bad. I don't want you to feel bad."

"I won't feel bad."

The barest, quietest hint of a chuckle escaped Sam at that, and Dean allowed himself a moment to revel in the tiny sound. "Yes, you will. You always feel bad about stuff I do. Even when it's my fault."

Oddly, that made more sense than anything else Sam had said so far. "Sammy, were you dreaming about when I was gone?"

He skirted any mention of _where_ he'd been, and didn't let the word "kill" cross his lips. Best to burn one bridge before moving on to another.

"Yeah," Sam answered. "There was a lot of fire. And I knew a lot of people were there, but I was somewhere else and I couldn't see them. And you weren't there. So I was alone." He paused and looked up. "See? I told you you'd feel bad."

Well, as usual, Sam had been right. But seriously, if all this wasn't at least partly Dean's fault, well, then whose fault _was_ it?

"Not yours," Sam said, and only then did Dean realize he'd unintentionally asked the question aloud. "You didn't want to leave."

Well, yeah, that much was definitely true. Sam would've fought tooth and nail and several other body parts if he'd been given any sort of chance at all.

But that didn't mean he blamed himself any less.

"So did you dream about anything else?" he asked, steering his thoughts back toward Sam again.

Only silence greeted him, and when he looked back down he found Sam asleep.

XXX

"I'm sorry, Mr. Warner, but I'm afraid I can't help you."

Michael Warner gritted his teeth and slammed the phone down, furious. He couldn't _believe_ the damn doctor wouldn't help him out. All he wanted was the name of the bastard who'd killed Becky—he had every right to that information. So far, the cops had exactly nil, and even if they had…

Michael shook his head, his fingers now brushing over the phone lightly as he thought.

He was willing to admit that the doctor refusing to help him _was_ a bit of a setback. He'd been the mostly likely person to give him the information.

But such a minor thing was no reason to give up. If Dr. Thornton wouldn't help him, he'd just have to find someone who would.

* * *

_Author's Note: I know it's short, but I'm hoping Sammy convinced you to enjoy it anyway._

_So! Review, please!_


	3. Old Problems

Chapter 2

Dean was getting restless, and he hated himself for it. He hated himself for wanting to leave, for wishing he could just get out of this crappy little motel room and be _outside_ again, for longing to just take Sam and put him in the car and move on.

That was what he wanted. That was what every hunting instinct told him to do. And that was what made him hate himself, because that wasn't what _Sam_ needed. And right now, shouldn't he be thinking of Sam before anything else?

Sam's answer to that question would have been completely different from _his_ answer—the _right_ answer—of course. That was why Dean didn't let a single hint of what he was thinking slip through the cracks.

Right now Sam needed stability. He needed to stay in one place. He needed to stay here, so that was what Dean needed, too.

So they wouldn't move on.

But seriously. What could be the harm in going _outside?_

Dean glanced over at Sam, who was sound asleep in his bed still. It was just touching dawn—he didn't have nightmares at this time, and he'd probably sleep for a while yet. Maybe there wouldn't be any harm in stepping out for just five minutes, if he left the door open a crack so Sam could figure out that he wasn't far…

Yesterday, Dean wouldn't even have considered it, but—well, Sam hadn't had another nightmare after their talk and had remained asleep when he'd slid out of bed, which would normally have woken him instantly. Maybe it wasn't a risk today, especially with Sam so deeply asleep that he barely moved when Dean touched his shoulder.

That more than anything decided the matter, and in a second Dean was slipping silently out the door.

Outside, it was about at the halfway point between night and dawn. Things were lightening, dray. The sun would be coming up soon, but for now it was chilly, just the right kind of chill to wake a man up, to revitalize him.

Dean had never been one to enjoy beating the sun awake, but the air had the same effect on him as it would have had on many others. He took a deep breath and let it out, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. For a long time he let himself drift, thinking of nothing, enjoying the quiet that came with a blank mind.

Thing was, no thoughts could stay empty forever, and after a while Dean's drifted back toward reality. He struggled to stop them, to hold them where they were, to grab onto a few more minutes of peace, but to no avail. Finally, he gave up, and let his mind go where it would.

Of course, it headed immediately for the practical, as a hunter's mind was wont to do. And it didn't help that there were so _many_ practical things to think about here—not the least being _money._

New York was an expensive place. The Winchesters never stayed there very long. But this time they'd been here over a week, if you counted the times when they didn't actually have a motel room booked. And between visiting hell's deeply boring alter-ego and dealing with an insane, then a comatose, then a _barely-_sane, brother—well, Dean hadn't had time to exploit any of his several means of making a quick buck.

And in the meantime, the bills were piling up. And not just motel and food bills. No, that would've been too easy. There had to be a hospital visit to contend with, too.

Normally Dean wouldn't have even spared a thought for that. The way he figured it, he and Sam threw away any chance at normal life, and jobs that would allow them to pay for medical care. Why should they worry about using fake credit cards or fake names to pay for doctors and hospitals?

And besides, Sam had been in the psych ward. Strapped to a bed. Immobilized. Dean normally would've been both furious and dubious as to why he should consider paying a single dime for those accommodations.

But…well, he'd _met_ Sam's doctor. Had _talked_ to him. The guy was…different. He'd looked and seemed genuinely concerned about Sam, and genuinely relieved that the kid actually did turn out to have family. And what was more, Dr. Thornton had never once mentioned payment. He probably would if he ever saw them again, but he _hadn't_. Not at the time.

Dean would have liked to be able to pay him back for that. Would've liked to thank him, too, come to that. But things were what they were, and gratitude would have to be pretty low on the list of priorities here, only checked off if the opportunity came freely.

Any way Dean looked at it, though, leaving here was going to be messy. Difficult and messy. And he didn't know when it would happen, or if he would be taking care of those details alone.

So much depended on Sam. Maybe all of it.

Dean was broken out of his thoughts when a fire truck whizzed down the road in front of the motel, sirens blaring—a fire to really start the day off right. The elder Winchester sighed. He glanced at his watch and was startled and dismayed to find that he'd been out for over half an hour. Muttering an oath, Dean hurried back into the room.

And felt his heart skip a beat at what he saw there.

Sam was awake. More than that, he was sitting up, huddled against the headboard in a ball that was impossibly small for his size. Huge brown eyes gazed at Dean in nothing short of terror, tears gathering at the corners even though they didn't fall. He looked…well, pathetic, but not in an insult way. Just a broken one. One that made Dean want to hold him like he was five again.

So that was exactly what he did. Dismissing manly pride and chick-flick moments and whatnot, he practically leapt across the room and sat down on the bed, drawing Sam into his arms.

Sam didn't hesitate. He burrowed in close, his arms tight around Dean, his face hidden form the world. He didn't cry. He didn't make a sound. But he shook. Shook like he was hypothermic, actually, and Dean's worry upped a notch.

Again.

He didn't even try to ask Sam what had happened. They could talk about it later—once Sam felt less fragile, less like he was going to fly apart if he left the protection of big brother's hug too soon. Questions could wait.

"Y-you…"

Dean started a little, looking down at the mop of brown hair on his shoulder. He hadn't expected Sam to speak.

"Sammy?"

Sam lifted his eyes to meet Dean's, and it seemed to steady him just a little.

"Y-you…" he repeated, then licked his lips and tried again, without the stutter. "You weren't there. I looked everywhere—I couldn't find you…and then there was this sound…like when you went in the fire."

He put his head down again, resting it on Dean's shoulder, and Dean ran a hand up and down his back even as he cursed himself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

He'd thought, when he decided to go out, that leaving the door cracked would be enough. That Sam would see his favorite leather jacket still hanging on the chair, see the partially open door, and deduce. But that was the old Sam. The calm, steady Sam. Not this new fragmented Sam who had experienced being all alone in the world and now panicked at the mere possibility of not having someone—or not having _Dean_—around.

And the stupid fire truck hadn't helped. Hadn't done anything to keep Sam from slipping back a step again.

Any more than Dean had.

This had to stop. The fear, the worry, the nightmares, the panic—it all had to _stop_. If it didn't, Dean was sure it would be the death of them both. And it _could_ be stopped, Dean was sure of it—if only Dean could figure out how.

But Sam needed more. He needed more than this scummy and familiar motel room, than ordered-in food and someone to be there after the nightmares. He needed those things, but he also needed more. He—_they­_—needed knowledge.

What they needed, Dean decided, was help.

XXX

It didn't take Michael a lot of work to get the name of the only other person who'd witnessed Becky's death. Tracking him down, though, was a different story altogether. Anthony Tripp was an intern, and his position dictated that he was constantly on the move, going and doing wherever and whatever he was told. It made him nearly impossible to track down.

In the end, though, Michael finally cornered him and got him alone—at least until his pager went off again.

The time restraint altered Michael's plans a little. He's wanted to be polite, to charm the information out of Dr. Tripp rather than resorting to quick, clipped, almost angry questions.

Luckily, Dr. Tripp was either very trusting or very stupid. Either that, or he blamed the psycho kid for Becky's death as much as Michael did. Either way, he seemed perfectly willing to spill whatever information he had.

Unfortunately, what information he had wasn't much.

Michael tried not to be too impatient with Tripp. From what he'd heard, the nut job had also been a John Doe, and had busted loose before anyone even got ID, blood samples, whatever. So, really, how much could he really expect anyone to know?

Still, he couldn't help being bitterly disappointed, and a little angry, when all he ended up getting was a description that could've fit a hundred people in Manhattan alone—well, okay, with the height, maybe closer to seventy-five.

Big odds, any way he looked at it.

He could get the PD on it, but he knew better than most that with the info he had, he wouldn't get many results.

So, in the end, Michael turned to leave feeling even more discouraged than before.

He was almost out the door when Tripp spoke up behind him.

"Oh, I almost forgot something. A couple days ago, someone came looking for him. The kid. I didn't talk to him directly—that's why I forgot. But I did get his first name from Dr. Thornton. It was…Dean, I think."

Michael turned the information over in his mind. Not much—but something.

"Thank you, Dr. Tripp."

"There's something else, too," Tripp added as Michael started to turn away again. "The guy—Dean—drove a sweet car. '67 Impala. Black. Don't see many of those anymore. Might help."

Michael turned back to him. Stared. Absorbed.

And, slowly, smiled.

* * *

_Author's Note: Well, first of all, I'm sorry for the OOC-ness. I know it's bad. But seriously? After that season finale, I _needed _it. I'm hoping you all feel the same way and won't ream me too badly for it._

_And secondly, I know this chapter is just as short as the last one. I was planning to make it almost twice as _long_, but then I decided I'd better go ahead and post, because the end of the school year is coming up, and I'm sure you all know what that means: projects. They are all different lengths, all different classes, and require all different kinds and amounts of research, and yet they all manage to be due on the exact same day. (If anyone can explain this phenomenon, I'd appreciate it.)_

_Plus, I'm due to ender finals-induced hibernation around this weekend. Once that happens I don't know how often I'll be able to write, until next week._

_So, the bottom line is, I really am not sure when the next chapter will be up. Could be as soon as the weekend, or I might not be able to get it up until after all my finals are over. Either way, though, I'll get to writing ASAP!_

_Wow, that was along note. Sorry, guys!_


	4. An Outsider

Chapter 3

Since John's death, Bobby had sort of become the Winchester go-to guy of choice, and it bugged Dean that he couldn't be so now.

Well, okay, maybe that wasn't completely true. Dean _could_ have gone to him, and freely. The one time the older Winchester had picked up the phone like he'd promised he would after the old hunter had left New York, Bobby had been….well, Bobby-like. He'd griped and grouched and demanded to know why Dean had waited a whole day to make good on his promise, but at the same time he's made sure they were both surviving, at least, if they weren't exactly okay yet. He'd been the same as ever, and that had been comforting, in its way.

So, yeah, maybe Dean could've gone to Bobby, and maybe it would've even made him feel better.

But Bobby couldn't help Sam, any more than Dean could. Neither of them could really _help_, because neither of them could figure out what was going on in the kid's head. And if they didn't know the exact problem, how were they supposed to find a solution?

Dean hated it. _All_ of it. He hated being helpless. He hated not knowing what Sam was thinking, He hated having to figure out bills and money and food all on his own.

He'd forgotten how much he hated working alone.

But as much as he hated all that—well, he hated what he was about to do even more.

Dean had agonized for a long time over his decision to go to an outsider for help. He'd only done it a couple of times before, and every time it had felt like pulling his own teeth. Even when he'd gotten help from other hunters, or people like the Leandros brothers, who at least knew the score—well, it still never felt right, going to anyone other than Bobby, or sometimes the Roadhouse, if the situation called for it.

And this time was going to be even worse. This was going to be one of those horrible times when Dean went to a civilian. An innocent person who knew nothing of the danger that could come from associating with Winchesters.

And Dean would do it willingly—for Sam.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

Dean waited until Sam was asleep before making the call. He really didn't want to explain to the new Sam what he was doing. Then he'd have to explain why, and who knew how Sam would react? He might get angry, or maybe even confused as to why he needed help at all. Dean didn't know, couldn't predict it—which, actually, was pretty much the problem.

He could've called Missouri or Georgina King, he supposed. They could've told him exactly what was going on in Sam's head, and in about ten seconds, besides. But to do that they would've had to dig into Sam's mind again, and somehow the thought of invading his little brother's privacy like that again was deeply disgusting to him.

And this was the only other option.

So, Dean waited until Sam fell asleep, and then snuck over to the other bed and called Dr. Thornton.

It didn't occur to him until the phone was already ringing that the doctor might not be there at eleven o'clock at night. He wasn't sure how doctors' schedules worked—did they just take off when they decided to, or did they work a certain number of hours every day like everyone else? And if it was the latter, what _was_ that certain number of hours? And if it was the former, well, what if some patient had an emergency in the middle of the night?

And most importantly, why were all these questions only occurring to Dean _now?_

And pointlessly, it turned out, because a couple of minutes later Dean had been connected to Dr. Thornton's phone.

His first thought was that no one had any right to be so polite when an almost complete stranger gave him a ring at eleven P.M.

His second thought was something along the lines of, _Well, okay, I've got him on the phone. Now what?_

"Uh…Dr. Thornton?" he asked awkwardly, clearing his throat nervously. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Dean Granger, from a few days ago. My brother was a John Doe at your hospital—"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Granger," Dr. Thornton said after a moment, sounding surprised but truly pleased all the same. "Of course I remember you. I don't think I'll forget you _or_ your brother for a long time yet." His voice softened a little then, sympathetic. "How are you doing with all that, anyway?"

Dean honestly didn't have a clue what to say to that, for a number of reasons—not the least of which was the fact that the doctor had even cared enough to ask.

"Actually, that's what I'm calling about." Dean cleared his throat again—apparently it was a nervous habit of his, which really bugged him, since he generally hated nervous habits. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, but how sure are you that you're not gonna get interrupted?"

"Pretty damn, considering the fact that almost no one knows I'm still here and I've got my pager turned off. Mr…erm…Granger, what exactly is this about?"

"It's Dean," Dean corrected immediately. Like he didn't have enough problems without having to keep track of aliases. "And…well, I just wanted to make sure. I'm taking enough of a risk calling you at all, without getting anyone else involved."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. What risk?"

Dean sighed quietly and rubbed his forehead, feeling one of the headaches he'd become all too accustomed to beginning to build behind his eyes. "Okay, doc, here's the thing. You seem like a decent guy. When we talked at the hospital you even seemed to really care about my brother. So I'm taking a big leap of faith here, and trusting you."

"Okay…" Dr. Thornton said slowly, sounding confused. "Uh…thanks, I guess. Now what's this all about?"

Dean glanced over at Sam—who chose that moment to roll over on his side, facing Dean and pillowing his head on his uninjured arm—and threw caution to the wind.

"I found Sam."

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then Dr. Thornton said calmly, "I'm assuming you didn't open with that because you were afraid I'd hang up and get the cops on your tails. Which is actually a little ridiculous, since I wouldn't even if I had the faintest idea where the hell you were calling from."

Dean felt an upwelling of admiration and unexpected warmth at the words, and he found himself smiling a little. "Yeah, well, gotta be sure. He did cause you guys a lot of trouble."

The doctor's voice went quiet again. "Yeah, he did at that. But if anyone could plead not guilty by reason of insanity, your brother could."

Far from making him angry, the words gave Dean a bone-deep feeling of relief. Because at least if it came to that, God forbid, they'd at least have someone on their side.

"Well, see, that's the thing. Sammy's not like _that _anymore. He knows what's what now, and I _think_ he remembers. But he's not okay. He's not okay at all."

"How do you mean?" Dr. Thornton asked, suddenly brisk. "He's not…hurting anyone, is he?"

Dean felt any warmth toward the man giving way to anger. "Seriously? That's the conclusion you jump to? After all your talk about it not being his fault? And here I thought…"

"No, no, that's not what I meant," Dr. Thornton cut him off mid-sentence. "What I meant was, is he hurting _himself?"_

And just like that, all the fight went out of Dean. He leaned forward and rested his head in his free hand, wishing with all his heart that he could dismiss the question as ridiculous.

"No. Not physically." _Not yet, anyway._ "But he's just so…different. Normally he's this babbling mess—likes the caring-and-sharing deal so much it makes me sick sometimes. Every therapist's dream, that's my brother. But now…"

"Now he doesn't do the…caring-and-sharing thing anymore?" the doctor filled in.

"Yeah. He's...withdrawn—even when I try to talk to him he won't tell me what's bothering him."

"Well, Dean, that could be very easily explained. He might just need someone else to…"

Dean shook his head even though the doctor couldn't see him. "No, doc, you don't get it. I don't blame you. But trust me on this—if he won't talk to me, he won't talk to anyone." He paused for a second, then said, "And there's more."

"I figured there would be. These kinds of things usually don't come singly. And they're definitely never simple. But why don't you tell me everything, and we'll see if I can't use my nice little Stanford education and medical degree to help you out?"

"You went to Stanford?" Dean blurted out, then regretted his rise in volume when Sam stirred a little and made a small sound. He reached across the space between their beds and rubbed a hand up and down Sam's arm until he stilled. Then he leaned back again and went on, much more quietly. "Sam went to Stanford."

"Did he?" Dr. Thornton said with interest. "It's a good school. Must be a smart kid."

"Yeah, he is," Dean said, not without some pride. "He liked it there. Uh, listen, doc, I don't want to be rude, but I really don't want Sam to find out I called someone outside the family, so you think we could…I dunno…speed this up a little?"

Dr. Thornton chuckled. "Why do I get the feeling you're not exactly used to _politely_ hurrying things along?"

Dean felt himself smiling a little, and uttered one of the phrases that he usually saved for Sam and Bobby.

"Yeah, whatever."

XXX

Bu the time Dean hung up, it was almost midnight, and he'd gotten up twice more to soothe Sam back to sleep. He felt a little bad for keeping Doc Thornton on the phone for so long, but that was pretty much trumped by the fact that for the first time, he felt that the situation might not be completely hopeless.

He put the phone down on the nightstand and leaned back against the pillows, glancing over to make sure Sam was still asleep. He itched to just get up and go over to the other bed and slide under the covers next to his little brother and make sure everything stayed okay, but—well, Dr. Thornton said not to.

Well, okay, he hadn't exactly said _not_ to. In fact, he'd encouraged Dean to get Sam to sleep through the night as best he could, to start. But he'd also said it would be best to try to get things headed back toward "normal"—for both of them.

"Obviously, it will happen slowly. But Sam needs to get used to—well, not being _alone,_ exactly, but to having you out of his sight again. It's the only way he'll be able to function the way he did…before."

And, okay, so it was kind of obvious advice, but it made Dean feel better to _hear_ it, to know that wanting to leave Sam alone was actually _okay._

Well maybe not _okay, _especially according to the Big Brother Handbook, but…necessary.

Sadly, Dr. Thornton had been less helpful on the "Sam's a Murderer" front. Mainly because, as he'd put it, "As a psychologist, I need to be able to put myself in my patient's shoes. To understand, at least on a basic level, what they're going through. But in Sam's situation—which, admittedly, I know little about—that's just not possible. I'm pretty sure no one has _ever_ been in Sam's exact situation before."

Which was, unfortunately, true. If Sam felt misunderstood, well, then it was actually because he _was, _this time.

Dean wished he could get it. Wished with all his heart that he could be experiencing this, instead of Sam. Or at least that Sam would just _talk_ to him.

But…one step at a time. First he'd work on getting them back to everyday life. In order to _feel_ normal, first they'd have to _act_ normal. Fake it 'til you make it, and all.

Dean heaved another sigh and slid down until his head rested on the pillows, closing his eyes.

Tomorrow, he'd start looking for a hunt. He'd make it an easy one, something he could do quickly and easily, and something very close. But it would be a hunt—it would be at least a _stab_ at the norm.

And for now, that would have to be good enough.

XXX

It took Michael the greater part of the night to track down the right motel. True, the tip about the car _was_ a help, but without plate numbers he couldn't actually track down either the car or its owners with a quick phone call.

Still, it wasn't as if he didn't have any time on his hands nowadays, and by the time the sky began to lighten, he had a location—the location of his daughter's killer.

Now he just had to figure out what he'd do with it.

* * *

_Author's Note: Well, you all knew it was coming, so it shouldn't be much of a surprise when I beg forgiveness for not updating sooner and for the short--and perhaps somewhat awkward/lame--chapter. But I've been swamped! First it was finals now it's my new job taking up more of my time than I thought it would._

_But speaking of finals--they are OVER! And I did pretty well on all of them except my Algebra final, but really, who actually does well on Algebra finals anyway? So they're done all the way until December--by the way, thanks to those who wished me luck, as it obviously did the trick--and I am OUT FOR THE SUMMER! _

_So, anyway, clearly, I finally did get something up, and I'm mostly caught up on everything else, too. So maybe this time it won't be quite so long. I hope._

_Also, I know this story is proceeding slowly, mostly due to the fact that I started it completely spur-of-the-moment. But I hope to be able to pick things up soon._

_AND, for anyone who is wondering where they are, we should be seeing Cal and/or Niko in the next chapter! That's the plan, anyway…_

_So, enough of my babbling. Review, please, guys!_


	5. Little Talks

Chapter 4

Dean didn't even bother questioning whether or not to call Cal to come stay with Sam while he went out to investigate the lead he'd found. He was starting to get used to having limited choices, and recognizing a useless situation when he saw one. And with Bobby more than a day out and Missouri or Ellen even further, this definitely qualified as a circumstance of limited choices.

This, though, he couldn't do in secret, obviously. This would involve actually leaving the motel grounds and taking the Impala with him. It would be disappearing on Sam if he didn't tell, and obviously _that_ was never happening again.

But the first thing was to get hold of the Leandros brothers.

It turned out to be surprisingly easy, which was a good thing because Cal's response to his call was somewhat unsatisfactory.

"Hey. I thought you'd left town."

That was it, and he didn't sound all that surprised, even when Dean asked his favor. All he said in reply to the question and its explanation was, "Sure, I'll hang out with Sam. Wanted to talk to him if I got the chance anyway."

"Really?" Dean said, trying not to sound suspicious. "What about?"

"Oh, ya know," Cal said vaguely. "Just catching up. I'll be over pretty soon."

And then he hung up, without giving Dean a chance to get another word in.

Dean rolled his eyes as he closed his cell phone. Niko was all right, he guessed, but Cal pretty much fit every description of an annoying little brother—in _his_ book, at least, though he was pretty sure he wouldn't be mentioning his opinion to Niko anytime soon.

His own pain-in-the-neck little brother was sitting up in his bed, waiting, when he stepped out of the bathroom where he'd made the call. When he came out, Sam asked without preamble, "Why do you want Cal to come here?"

Dean glanced back at the door behind him, then at his brother. "And here I could've sworn I put Kryptonite in your cereal this morning, Superman."

It was a lame joke, probably one even the old Sam wouldn't have acknowledged, but Dean hadn't told a joke in a long time and the simple act of it just felt_ good._

Sam, though, didn't even seem to notice. He just said, "The walls are thin. Where are you going?"

Dean sighed a little and went to sit down next to Sam. "I got a lead on a hunt, right here in the city. I need to go talk to some people."

Sam cocked his head to the side a little and said, "I can't come." Dean was about to reply when Sam surprised him by following up the question-not-question on his own. "Because I can't act like a cop or anything like that. It wouldn't work." He looked up at Dean and asked, "You have to go, don't you? I don't know why, but you do."

Dean shifted on the mattress and said, "Well, yeah. I guess I do. But don't worry, kiddo. Cal'll be here, and I'll have my cell. You can call whenever you need to, okay?"

"Are you leaving now?" Sam asked.

"Uh…no. I'm waiting 'til Cal gets here."

"Oh. Okay. I hope it works."

"You hope what works?" Dean asked, confused.

"Whatever you want this hunt to do for you and me. I hope it works," Sam said sincerely.

Dean shifted again, more uncomfortably this time. Sam was a little _too_ perceptive these days, even for him.

"Yeah, Sammy. I hope so, too."

XXX

Sam was watching public access television with the distinct lack of interest he'd been putting to everything when Cal and Niko turned up. He looked up when Dean pulled open the door and raised his splinted arm in greeting, then turned back to the screen.

"Hey," Dean said a little awkwardly as he closed the door again. "Thanks for doing this, guys."

"Oh, he's not doing it," Cal said with a gesture at his brother. "He's going with you."

"Um…what?" Dean asked.

"Well," Niko said, in his carefully polite way, "Cal told me what was happening, and that Sam needed some company. I had nothing on the radar, and I thought to see if you needed company, as well."

_And it'll make Sam feel better to know I have some backup._

The idea occurred to Dean without any warning, and he wondered fleetingly—before dismissing the idea as ridiculous—if it had occurred to Niko, too. It obviously hadn't, but it was still the truth. Even if all he planned to do was interviews, it would still make Sam feel better if he knew Dean wasn't doing any kind of hunting-involved work by himself.

So, reluctantly, Dean glanced over at Sam, and then looked back at Niko and nodded.

"Fine."

XXX

After Dean and Niko were gone, Sam went back to staring blankly at the screen. He wasn't exactly _ignoring_ Cal—it was more like he'd forgotten he wasn't alone.

For a while, Cal just stood where he was, shifting from foot to foot, bored out of his skull and wondering why he'd agreed to this in the first place. But then Sam shifted uneasily on the bed and sort of half-reached for the cell phone on the nightstand, and he remembered.

As if the idea had only just occurred to him, he went over and sat down at the foot of Sam's bed. He dangled one leg over the side and crossed the other, and asked casually, "So, how're you doing, Sam?"

Sam looked at him, openly and obviously surprised. He seemed to think hard on it, and then said, as if speaking lines from a memorized script, "I'm fine."

"Really? Huh," Cal said thoughtfully. "And here I was thinking you were completely crappy."

Sam looked puzzled then, as if by saying what he did Cal had gone off the script. "I'm fine. Isn't that what I'm supposed to say? I thought it's what I always say…"

Cal rolled his eyes. "Dude, you're not an actor. You're not _supposed_ to say anything."

"…Oh," Sam said. "Well, I knew that was how it worked with Dean. I didn't know I was supposed to tell you the truth, too."

With that Sam turned his attention back to the TV, as if the matter was quite closed, and for the moment Cal didn't see any choice but to do the same.

He just really wished that hunters, as a whole, weren't so certifiably nuts. If he were anyone else, he might even have found it disconcerting.

XXX

Niko was actually a less annoying tag-along than Dean had anticipated. He seemed pretty willing to just follow along while Dean did his interviewing at victims' homes, at the police station, and at the county office, all without saying a word.

But here was the thing—Dean didn't like doing this with other people. To most hunters, the job was a deeply personal thing, the same way the story of how they got started was deeply personal. You hunted with family or friends, and occasionally had outside contacts, but they didn't often interfere.

That was usually Dean's way. He always hunted with Sam and sometimes he hunted with Bobby or, very rarely, Ellen. Except for a couple of extreme circumstances, that was it. It just went too _deep_ to open to anyone else.

Except, apparently, Niko Leandros.

And how had that even _happened,_ anyway? He'd only meant to rope Cal, who he found annoying but who Sam seemed to like and trust—which had, after all, been the whole point. But apparently, the Leandros brothers were a package deal, and somehow, by getting one, he'd also ended up with the other.

Well, whatever. At least Sam wasn't left on his own. And it wasn't like Niko was the chattering type, or interfered with the work at all. In fact, most of the time he just sat in the car and waited.

But…well, there was this one thing—this subtle thing that Niko did every time Dean got back in the car. He would get this _look_ on his face—kind of like the look Sam would get when they were littler and John would ask them questions about creatures they hunted, and Sam knew the answer to every question but wanted to give Dean the chance to answer for a change. It wasn't smug, it wasn't condescending, it wasn't even really that irritating—just…_knowing._

But for the life of him, Dean couldn't figure out what Niko could know that he didn't.

Maybe he didn't know anything. Maybe Dean's suspicions were just being confirmed.

Maybe Niko and Cal really were just crazy.

XXX

"Ya know, I sent assassins after Niko a while back."

Sam looked away from the screen at that, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "You did what?"

Cal shrugged, carefully keeping his voice from trembling as he went on. "Yeah. I tried to have him killed, and George, too. And…well, a lot of other people, but they're the ones who stick out in my mind."

"But you love them," Sam stated, without a trace of embarrassment. "You love them more than anyone else in the world."

Cal felt himself reddening a little. "Yeah. That's why I sent the assassins in the first place. I was possessed—by something called Darkling. Not a possession like the kind you hunters work with—not a demon. It was more than that. It was like…me, only distorted. I _remember_ it like it was me—I remember doing those things and liking it. Hell, I _loved_ it."

Sam shook his head. "I know what you're trying to say. But it still wasn't you, no matter how you remember it. It's not the same thing at all."

"No," Cal agreed. "I know. But that wasn't the point I was trying to make. My _point _was that it wasn't my fault. Took me a while to get it, but I know now that it wasn't. I didn't want to kill my brother, any more than you did."

Sam gave a little start and looked at him again, this time accusingly, like he suspected Cal of reading his mine—or of having it read—again.

"Well? Isn't that what you've been thinking?" Cal asked, as if the answer wasn't plain. "That if you'd just been paying more attention you would've seen trouble coming in time to stop it?"

"Yes," Sam said frankly, as if he was only surprised no one had figured it out before.

"Sam, Darkling came out of my bathroom mirror. I saw it for weeks before it possessed me, and I didn't do anything to stop it. I didn't even try. You tell me, is that my fault?"

Sam looked away without replying—but the very fact that he _did_ avoid answering was proof that _something _had gotten through to him.

After a couple of minutes, Cal sighed inwardly and turned his attention to the infomercial that had been playing for the last fifteen minutes. Sam turned to watch it, too, and Cal gave an inward sigh. Maybe he'd gotten through to Sam and maybe he hadn't but either way he felt like he'd run ten miles. Playing the therapist was just plain_ hard._

Was this how Niko felt all the time? Because if it was, maybe he had a reason to be so cranky…

XXX

When Dean got back in the Impala to head back to the motel after his last interview, Niko had that look again, and Dean finally cracked.

"_What?"_

Niko raised an eyebrow slightly and said mildly, "Excuse me?"

"C'mon, man. I know you've been thinking _something_ all day. Why don't you just say it instead of…_looking_ like that?"

"I wasn't aware that I could change the way I look. If you possess the secret to that, perhaps you could enlighten me."

"So you _can_ joke. I'd act impressed, but this whole thing with Sammy has worn my patience a little thin. Just tell me what you're thinking so we can go."

Niko shook his head. His hand flashed momentarily, and then a knife appeared in it. It was a pretty impressive weapon, actually, and Dean would've said so if he felt at all like paying compliments.

"Telling you would be too close to passing judgment. It's not for me to question the way you do your work, especially since your life is so different from mine."

"Cut the fortune cookie crap. I've been talking to uncooperative people all day and I just want to go back to the motel."

"You didn't have to," Niko said suddenly. "Talk to uncooperative people, I mean. That's what I've been thinking. I could have gotten you the same information in about an hour."

"Oh, I would love to know how."

"I have…contacts," Niko explained. "Contacts who could tell you all you need to know, since they keep their ears quite close to the ground. They aren't hunters, but you wouldn't have to explain to them or make up stories, either. But you have your ways, and I have mine. Both seem fairly affective."

Dean barley heard the last part, though—he was too caught up in Niko's definition of "contacts."

He looked out the windshield and spoke as if to it. "You're right—our lives are different, and I won't judge you any more than you judge me. But this is my hunt, and I'm doing it my way. And I don't work with monsters."

He really hadn't meant for it to come out that way—so harsh and immediate—but he couldn't exactly go back now.

There was a flash of silver, and Dean looked over to see Niko twirling the blade almost idly, flipping it fro hand to hand almost negligibly. When he spoke, he sounded perfectly calm—just a friend advising a friend.

"I wouldn't recommend you ever say that again."

XXX

Victory was so close Michael could almost taste it from where he crouched, his eyes locked on the door that was the only thing standing between him and Becky's killer. He'd already surveyed the place and decided he could get a dart through the tiny window if he could find the right angle. And the boy Dean couldn't stay there forever, as he'd already proven. He'd leave again, and then…then Michael would strike.

And then the low-down murderer would disappear, and no one would ever come looking for him.

Michael would make sure of it.

* * *

_Author's Note: Well, I did it! I put down _1984 _long enough to write this chapter! Never thought it'd happen, much less in one week! Anyways, I hope you all like it, and that I managed to keep on writing Cal and Niko okay._

_I _am_ sorry about the limited brother-to-brother interaction in the chapter. It won't last, though!_

_Also, one more thing. I couldn't remember if Darkling actually did have an L in it. I'm pretty sure it did, but my best friend borrowed my books and so I couldn't look it up. So if I spelled it wrong, I'm sorry!_

_Well, that's all! Review, please!_


	6. Fault Lines

Chapter 5

Dean had been a little surprised that his cell hadn't rung all day, so he fished it out immediately when it started to do just that as he fired up the car to pull out of the parking lot.

"Hey, Sammy."

"Hi, Dean," Sam said, and maybe it was because he could only hear and not see, but for a moment Dean could have sworn he was talking to his brother at six instead of his little brother at twenty-three. "Are you okay?"

Dean felt it was safe to roll his eyes, since Sam wasn't there, and did so. "'Course I'm okay. I was just interviewing."

"I thought you decided to go finish the job anyway. You do stupid things like that sometimes."

"Oh, thanks, Sammy."

"You're welcome," Sam said, completely serious.

Dean rolled his eyes again.

"Dean, stop rolling your eyes."

Dean paused for a moment—but he had to ask. "Did you just…"

"I just know you," Sam said simply. "Where are you?"

"On my way back there," Dean replied. "Ten minutes at the most."

"Okay." He paused. "Cal just muttered that he bets Niko had a better day than he did. Oh. Now he's blushing and looking annoyed. I don't think I was supposed to hear him. Sorry, Cal." He paused again, then relayed to Dean, "He says it's okay."

"Well…that's good, I guess," Dean said. "Look, Sammy, I need to hang up now, okay? I'll be there in ten minutes."

"All right," Sam said. "Does that mean I should hang up now?"

"Uh…yeah."

"Okay," Sam said, sounding a little reluctant. But then there was a _click_ and a dial tone, and Dean put his phone away.

"How was it today, then?" Niko asked. He was still playing with his knife, though not as threateningly as before. He already seemed to have forgiven Dean for his comment earlier—he was just as polite as ever.

Dean shrugged. "Couldn't really tell. He didn't sound too freaked or anything, but it's not as obvious these days—what he's thinking—which is weird since he can't seem to lie to me anymore…"

Niko was watching him as he trailed off, and now he commented lightly, "I don't think I'd want Cal to be incapable of lying. Of course, he's usually wise enough not to lie to me, anyway."

Dean glanced over at Niko at that, and grinned almost against his will. "Yeah, I'll bet he is…"

XXX

Cal found it hard to disguise his relief when Dean walked back into the motel room. It wasn't that he wanted to get _away_ from Sam, exactly—he wouldn't mind sticking around now, even. It was just…Sam was so _quiet_—when he wasn't making random insightful comments with candid disinterest_._ It was unnerving, and it would be nice for him to have Dean to focus on again.

The surprising thing was that Dean looked as relieved as he felt—though, from the way his eyes kept darting to Niko behind him, hid relief sprung from an entirely different source.

"Did you boys have fun?" Niko asked, in a fairly good imitation of an overbearing mother.

"Oh, yeah, it was awesome," Cal replied sarcastically. "We're not really missing much without a cable TV, are we?"

Niko raised one eyebrow. "I believe I've told you that time and again."

"Yeah, but you also told me that tofu at that vegetarian place you like so much would be good."

"And I was right. You just failed to recognize it."

Cal shook his head in disbelief and turned his attention to Dean, who was already sitting on the bed next to Sam. It looked like a tight fit, with both of them side by side, but neither of them seemed willing to use the untouched other bed.

"Uh…" he started, then realized that he couldn't say what he'd been planning to. He couldn't tell Dean what he and Sam had talked about with Sam sitting right there and all. And he highly doubted that Dean could pick up his message with a simple look the way Niko could.

So in the end, he settled for saying, "You need someone again, you know where to find us."

Dean looked carefully at him and nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

And Cal suddenly felt like maybe Dean had picked _something_ up.

XXX

"That is one majorly screwed-up kid."

Niko looked sideways at him as they walked. Whatever he was thinking, it didn't show as he commented mildly, "He's older than you."

"Not much."

"Four years. It's a bigger age difference than the one between you and I."

"Yeah, but still. He just…seems younger."

Niko nodded. "He does at that. But you remember when we first met him—he didn't seem so young when he pulled you out of that grave, did he?"

Cal groaned. "I knew you'd never let me forget about that."

"Why should you when I'm unable to?" Niko countered, and there was too much truth in that for Cal to reply with some blow-off remark.

"So how were things with you and Dean?" he asked instead, changing the subject.

Niko shrugged. "Awkward. He simply can't feel comfortable around me. Or you, for that matter. Nor to I think he ever will be. Trust doesn't seem to come easily to him or to Sam."

"Huh," cal said thoughtfully. "Maybe we're not so different from them after all, then."

Niko looked at him again, fully this time, and smiled—God only knew at what.

"You're right. Maybe we're not."

XXX

"So how was it today?"

Sam tilted his head until it rested against Dean's shoulder, still staring at the now-muted TV. It was a gesture that had become habit for them both, and Dean never had discouraged it.

"It was weird," Sam replied. "The room was all empty. And Cal didn't want to watch TV, like you and I always do."

"What'd he want to do?" Dean asked, keeping his own eyes on the TV, too.

"Talk," Sam said simply.

Dean looked down at the dark head on his shoulder at that. "Oh, yeah?" he asked, keeping his voice steady, flat. "What'd you talk about?"

"Me," Sam answered, his tone unchanging. "And him. But I can't tell you what he said about him. I think it's a secret."

"Okay, fair enough. But what'd he say about you?"

"That it's not my fault you went away," Sam replied, still without any noticeable change in volume or steadiness.

"Wha—Sammy, of _course_ it isn't!" Dean said, staring down at his brother in shock. "God, is that what you've been thinking this whole time?" _And you told Cal and not me?_

Something of his hurt must have shown in his voice, because Sam said, "Cal guessed. I didn't tell him. And I didn't know that was what I thought. Not really."

Well, okay. But that didn't erase the way Dean felt about not having _known._

"Sam, listen to me. I don't know how the hell it got into your head that this could've possibly been your fault, but it is _not._ I got the bad end of things that night, and that was it. Nothing either of us could do about it."

"Then why do you keep acting like it's your fault you weren't here?"

Dean stared at him for a second, then managed a small grin. "You still got it, Sammy."

"I've still got what?" Sam asked, confused.

"Never mind. Just…look, Sam, you _have_ to know it wasn't your fault—at least on some level."

Sam's head bowed a little more. "I do. I think. Sometimes."

Sometimes wasn't all the time, and it wasn't nearly enough, but Dean could already tell that this wasn't going anywhere tonight. So instead, Dean just sighed and said, "Okay, Sammy, okay," and left well enough alone—for now.

But apparently, Sam wasn't quite done, because after a few minutes of silence, he looked up at Dean for the first time yet. For just a moment, the mask over his face dropped away, and Dean was nearly bowled over by the sheer amount of pain and guilt in his eyes.

"But I did kill four people, Dean. Nothing we can say will change that."

And then the mask went back up, and Sam's eyes went back to betraying nothing of what he was feeling. He turned back to the screen again, and Dean was left to stare into space and wonder, for the ten thousandth time, how they'd ended up here.

And why he couldn't seem to do anything to get them back to where they'd been before.

XXX

"But, Dean, I don't understand," Sam said, and the faint tinge of emotion in his voice was enough to make Dean pause.

"What don't you understand?" he asked gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed, facing his brother. "You know I've been working on a hunt of the last couple days. And I know enough now to finish it tonight. It's just a simple salt-'n-burn—I'll be back before you know it."

"But why did you call Cal and Niko again? Why can't I just go with you?" Sam asked, just the way he'd begged to go with Dean when he was ten or eleven and too young to hunt quite yet—begged to go and just sit in the car, just to be closer to Dean.

The memory nearly caused Dean to back down, but…

"Sammy, you just can't, okay? Not this time. Just…trust me."

"But _why?_ Dean, what's so important about you being on your own for this? If you want to get away from me—"

"God, Sammy, _no!" _Dean burst out. He debated for a second, but if _that_ was what Sam thought, then… "I called a doctor, okay? The head psychologist at the hospital you busted out of."

Sam actually flinched a little at that, but he didn't say anything, and Dean rushed on, determined to tell all.

"I just didn't know what to do, and he seemed like a pretty okay guy, and I didn't tell him where we are and called from my cell and—"

"What did he tell you?"

It was the first time Sam had interrupted him since he'd come back, and Dean didn't really know what to make of it.

"He…he said we needed to…try for a little normal. And also that…both of us need to get used to being apart sometimes."

"…Oh," Sam said. That was all, and Dean felt an uneasy flutter in his stomach. Sam had every right to be mad about this—about Dean talking to an outsider about _him_—but…he wasn't.

Couldn't he get worked up about _anything_ anymore?

"Take Niko with you."

Dean looked at Sam quickly, and found him staring resolutely away.

"You shouldn't go alone, because of all the stupid things you do.

Dean sighed. "We'll talk when I get back?"

Sam was about to answer when there was a knock on the door. With one more sad look at his brother, Dean got up to answer it.

He was almost at the door when Sam spoke again.

"Don't be gone too long, okay?"

Dean looked back at him with his hand on the knob, and managed a small smile.

"Okay, Sam."

XXX

Michael bit back a steady stream of curses when he saw the two other boys approach the motel. He hadn't counted on them showing up again—and right when he was finally ready to _do_ something.

With a muttered oath, Michael watched the two other boys go into the motel room and thought furiously of what to do about this. If all four of them were going to be there…

But no. He caught a glimpse of movement in the direction of the motel, and looked in time to see Dean and one of the two new boys emerge from the room. He watched as they walked to the black Impala and got in, and then the car rumbled out of the lot.

So that just left two.

But that was still one too many.

He just…he hadn't _planned_ for this! And this whole thing required planning, if it was going to go off smoothly. But if the new boys were going to persist in coming around every time Dean left--it wasn't like he could stay here forever. He was working on a timetable and he'd already pushed back his schedule so far…he couldn't interrupt it anymore. And if he couldn't rely on his target being left alone anytime soon, either, then…

It didn't leave him with many options—but there was one. There was one thing he could do.

It seemed that a little reworking of his plan was in order here…

* * *

_Author's Note: Well, I haven't checked my e-mail yet today, but now that I've put up my update for the week, it _seems_ that I'm only one and a half papers, a mythology book, a few Bible stories, and half a collaborated fanfic behind! I've finally made a dent—and it only took a few days of work!_

_No, seriously, I'm feeling a sense of accomplishment right now…_

_I have two things to tell you guys. The first thing is that I'll be changing my username pretty soon. "Kender Rock My World" is just too long for people to write. So I'll be changing it to "Adara-chan" or some variation of that, since that's the name so many of you online folks know me by anyways._

_The second thing is actually on behalf of my sister, who goes by the name Bards of Bedlam here. She wants me to let anyone I can know that she's looking for people to beta for. She says I'm way more popular on here than she is—she's wrong, but whatever—and that I'm the best person to let people know. And I can vouch for the fact that she'd be an _awesome_ editor. So, if anyone's looking for someone, go on and check out her beta profile!_

_There, I've fulfilled my obligations. Sorry for the long note, guys!_


	7. Brief Interlude

Chapter 6

Things were just so…_strange_ now. Dean was back, and that was…unbelievable. It was so unbelievable, in fat, that Sam found he _couldn't_ believe it unless Dean was right in front of him, or sitting next to him, or talking to him. But when he _was_ doing one or all of those things—well, Sam guessed it was probably a feeling somewhat akin to winning the lottery.

But Dean was worried about him. He saw that. It was probably because he didn't talk as much, or lie, or get angry, or anything like that. Dean probably thought he was "angsting," or just crazy—and he probably _was _the latter, admittedly.

But he definitely wasn't angsting, if the word meant what he remembered it meaning. He just couldn't seem to get his mind wrapped around words as firmly anymore—not enough to have a real conversation. And as for the other stuff—well, he just couldn't bring himself to do it anymore. Not to Dean, who had, after all, come back to him and stayed with him even after he'd…

Well, anyway, he couldn't lie to Dean.

And he couldn't get angry, either. After everything he had gone though, Dean didn't deserve to have anyone angry at him—ever again. So Sam wasn't—he never showed it, and he tried his damnedest not to feel it.

It was the least—the _least_—he could do.

XXX

The flames had been inching closer for…well, Sam didn't know how long, but it had been a while. He thought. Maybe. Of course, time meant next to nothing to him now, so it was difficult to be sure. But Dean had told him to go to sleep at least three times so far, so it must have been a while.

Well, anyways, the point was, there were flames, and they were drawing steadily closer, and Sam…wasn't quite sure whether he cared or not.

Well, okay, so he cared. He _had_ to care, considering what the fire had done last time. But he hadn't been able to stop them then, and there was no reason to believe he'd be able to now.

Dean probably could have. He should probably tell Dean. But every time he tried, it…well, it didn't work. The words just…didn't work.

And then he'd get distracted again, and the flames would recede to the corner of his vision, and he'd forget about them entirely—that was, until Dean stopped talking to him or he wasn't in sight at all.

Actually, that was the worst—when Dean wasn't in his sight anymore. Then the flames seemed to eat up the space between themselves and Sam. That time when Dean had called Cal and Niko, and been gone all day, they'd crossed the halfway point to him.

And now Dean was gone again, and Cal was with him, and what if the fire reached him this time? What if they reached him and Dean wasn't there?

And Sam felt afraid.

XXX

Sometimes, Sam couldn't remember what had happened the last time the fire had touched him. It was all fuzzy, like being tuned in to a really bad satellite connection. He remembered faces sometimes—some he knew, and a lot he didn't.

But four faces in particular stuck out in his mind. Two girl and two boys. He remembered their faces vividly—especially their eyes, and the life going out of them when he…

Well, anyway, _those_ memories he couldn't seem to shed. They were with him night and day, day and night, hovering just on the ragged edges of his mind.

But the rest faded in and out, right up until the moment when he'd opened his eyes and Dean had been hovering over him, and he'd felt like the world was rocking on its axis until he'd grabbed onto something firm in the form of Dean's sleeve and the warm, solid, real arm within it.

And Sam really, really hoped it would stay that way, just as he hoped that he wouldn't have to find out what would happen if the flames touched him again.

But that hope was steadily fading, because the flames were growing closer by the minute.

XXX

When Dean wasn't there, Sam spent a lot of time thinking. He remembered that before Dean left, that had been pretty normal for him, so now he did it whenever he could.

But now, he could never seem to remember the things he thought about. They slipped away like water, easily and without fuss, but leaving a feeling that he was forgetting something he shouldn't.

He thought anyway, though, because thinking distracted him.

Tonight Cal had come over and Dean had left, and Sam had been deep in thought for about an hour. The T.V. was turned on, and Cal was probably watching it on the other bed, but Sam lacked the interest to check.

This was a rare night, actually, one in which Sam could actually remember what he was thinking about. Actually, it was more what he was _remembering,_ he guessed. The memory was from when he was about seven or eight, and Dean, at eleven or twelve, decided it was about time Sam learned poker. Only Sam hadn't known it at the time, but Dean didn't have a clue how to play the game either, and was just mixing what he'd seen on T.V. with his own made-up rules.

It was a good memory, and Sam would let it carry him until he saw Dean again. If he did that, maybe he could keep the fire at bay.

He was still dwelling on it when he registered that something was different.

Actually, it was Cal who noticed it first. Sam just noticed Cal leaning forward in his seat, and then suddenly vaulting over the end of the mattress and leaping toward the open window.

The dart caught him in midair, and Sam watched, puzzled, as he dropped like a stone.

* * *

_Author's Note: Oh, my God, you guys! I finished my _1984_ paper _and_ got a good start on _Pictures of Dorian Gray and_ caught up completely with all the poor—but incredibly patient—people who had stories waiting in my inbox to be beta'd. Isn't that _awesome?

_Also, I know this is a freakishly short chapter. Believe it or not, it's supposed to be. I decided to write it completely spur-of-the-moment when I realized that we hadn't made a dive into Sam's thoughts once in the whole story. Sorry if it disappoints, but I'll have a chapter of actual length pretty soon!_


	8. Crazy Few

Chapter 7

It was the wrong grave.

Dean stared down at the tiny coffin and felt a mixture of self-disgust and…well, more self-disgust.

He'd known that the grave he was looking for didn't have a name on the marker, and in his anxiety to get this done, he hadn't even stopped to consider the idea that there might be more than one unmarked grave in this cemetery. It was a rookie mistake, one he hadn't made in well over a decade—until tonight.

And not only that, but he'd dug up a _child's_ grave.

At least he hadn't actually burned the bones. That was a plus, he supposed.

With a sigh, Dean tossed his shovel up and out and pulled himself out of the grave. "It's the wrong one," he told Niko, who—once his offer to help dig had been firmly rebutted—had taken up a seat next to the plot, legs crossed and hands on knees so that he looked like the Dalai Lama or something.

If Niko was thinking anything deprecating, he certainly didn't show it. Instead, he glanced down into the grave and said simply, "If you wouldn't mind lending me a shovel, I'll cover it again while you find the right one."

Dean sighed again and, after a moment's hesitation, said grudgingly, "Yeah, thanks."

Niko gave him a brief smile, and for a moment—just a single moment—Dean met his eyes and felt with a jolt that the other man knew exactly what he was thinking. It was like he knew without asking exactly how uncomfortable Dean was with letting anyone besides Sam in on a hunt—and that not only did he know, but he also sympathized.

It was like, with that one look, Niko had picked up everything that was bothering Dean at that moment.

It was insanely uncomfortable, and Dean was again reminded why being around Niko made him feel so _awkward._ He looked away quickly and said, "Just, uh, use that shovel. I'll get one from my car."

Niko gave him that look again, and as Dean turned and started to head toward the car, he could've sword he heard a soft chuckle behind him.

XXX

Sam felt…strange. Fuzzy, but in a different way than when he tried to remember the time while Dean was gone. This fuzziness wasn't like forgetting. It just felt…_wrong. He_ felt wrong. In addition to the fuzziness, he felt nauseous, and his head felt like someone was splitting it with a jackhammer.

And he could already tell that he wasn't in the motel room anymore—after being there for nearly a week straight, it was obvious without opening his eyes.

And what was more, he could tell Dean wasn't there.

That realization frightened him far more than anything else could have, and Sam wrenched his heavy eyes open as soon as it occurred to him.

His first impression was of space. Not big enough to be a warehouse, but not small enough to be a room in a house, motel, or apartment building. And in New York City, that didn't leave many options except—underground? Maybe some kind of basement?

He tried to figure out more, but his mind drifted away again—away from this place, and away from his sudden fear—for how long, he didn't know. He came back once to note that his wrists and arms were secured with a chain—not even cuffs, but something like bike chains that cut into him and hurt like hell—but before long he went away again.

The second time he returned, it was for longer, because it was then that he noticed that he wasn't alone, after all. Cal was there. He was slumped against the wall, tied like Sam was, looking like full-on warfare wouldn't wake him up. Sam tried to open his mouth and say his name, but like when he tried to talk about the flames, the words wouldn't come out.

And then he drifted off again, and stayed away until he heard the distant sound of a door opening and closing. The noise jerked him back into semi-lucidity in time for him to hear and, eventually, comprehend the sound of measured footsteps.

XXX

Dean pressed a little harder on the gas pedal than was necessary as he left the cemetery parking lot an hour or so later. Niko glanced sidelong at him and said, "Would you think it intrusive if I asked a personal question?"

Dean shrugged and said absently. "You've already gone on a hunt with me. Doesn't get much more personal than that. What do you want to know?"

"Have you told Sam about your father's secret yet?"

Dean jerked the wheel sharply, causing the car to swerve into the other—blessedly empty—lane for a moment before he straightened her out. "Uh…okay, I was wrong," he murmured. "Jeez, you really get to the heart of things, don't you?"

"I apologize," Niko said. Dean waited, but nothing else was forthcoming.

"Well, if you really think it's any of your business…yeah, I told him. He freaked out, he ran off, he came back. And then he asked me to promise I'd do it, if it came to that. That enough information for you?"

Niko's hand drifted down toward the boot Dean now knew held a very impressive dagger, but then it fell back onto his lap and he said, "That must have been unpleasant."

"Yeah, that's…a pretty good word for it. But we got over it."

"And did you? Promise him?"

"Yeah, I promised him. He wouldn't leave me alone until I did. Look, what's it to you, anyway?" Dean asked, trying to sound sharp and only succeeding in sounding tired."

"And yet," Niko went on, ignoring the last question, "you didn't. When he was killing people, you didn't even consider ending him, did you? Not for a moment."

"_No!"_ Dean said, nearly swerving the car again. "Of _course_ not! How can you even ask me that?"

But then he noticed that Niko's lips were curling upward in as close a thing to a smile as Dean ever saw on his face.

"What're you _smiling_ about?"

"I was just thinking," Niko explained, "that my brother might be right for once in his life. Maybe you and I _are_ more alike than we'd like to believe."

Dean couldn't really say anything to that, because he remembered Sam saying something like that once.

And suddenly, he just…really wanted to see his brother.

XXX

Sam probably should have been worried about the man pacing silently up and down in front of him, holding a gun and wearing an expression of deep concentration, but he couldn't seem to concentrate. All he could think was, _Where's Dean? Dean should be here…_

"What's your name, boy?"

It was the first time the stranger had spoken since he'd come down into what turned out to be a basement. His voice was calm, even friendly, but something in it raised all the little hairs on the back of Sam's neck.

"Sam," he answered immediately. It didn't even occur to him to lie—he was too busy wondering about Dean.

"Sam. I'm Michael."

"Hi, Michael. Were you the one who brought us here?" Sam asked, his mind only half on the conversation.

"I was, yes. And you won't be leaving, either."

"Oh. That's kind of a bummer. Or it would be if you were right. How'd you get us here?"

"Tranquilizer darts," Michael replied. He seemed perfectly willing to answer all Sam's questions and Sam somehow felt that there was something wrong with that. "You seem to be shaking them off much faster than your friend here. Then again, his did have enough in it to drop an elephant in its tracks. I'm surprised it didn't kill him, honestly. He's really fairly useless—I just brought him along to avoid the mess of killing him at your motel. You, though, Sam—you, I want to talk to."

"What about?" Sam asked politely, already waiting for the smash of Dean's shoe against the door.

"Oh, nothing much. Just…wanted to know why you killed my daughter, is all."

Sam felt himself snap back to Earth at that and blurted, without thinking, "I didn't kill your daughter!"

Michael's expression changed without warning, going from pleasant to positively alarming in a split second. _"Don't lie,"_ he hissed quietly, stomping forward.

Sam had a second to wonder what was about to happen before a heavily booted foot crashed down on his tied and splinted arm. It was actually surprising at how easily it broke—Niko must have done a little more damage than they'd thought.

Michael stepped back, breathing harder now, as Sam gave a choked, hoarse cry, and his distance allowed Sam to finally notice that the flames had gotten far closer and were moving faster than ever before.

Gasping harshly at the pain—no matter how many bones he broke, he was always surprised at how much it hurt—Sam felt his mind starting to gray out again, leaving only one thought behind.

_Come on, Dean, hurry up. Please…_

XXX

Sam was gone.

When he walked into the motel room and found it empty, it took Dean a good ten seconds to comprehend that fact. For a while, he just stood there, taking in the empty beds, the black TV, the empty corner where Sam's duffel should have been, and felt a horrible sense of loss that nearly knocked him flat.

Behind him, Niko said urgently, "This is wrong. They couldn't have just _left."_

"No," Dean agreed distantly. _Unless Sam snapped again. _"But there's no sign of struggle. But…why would Cal go with him even if..." _But he didn't…he wouldn't have… _"This doesn't make any sense. Call Cal, would you? I'm gonna try and call…"

He trailed off then, having just noticed something very important. In two strides he crossed the room, picking something up off the nightstand and staring at it.

"He didn't take his phone…" Dean murmured. He looked up as Niko came up behind him, meeting the other man's eyes and, for once, _hoping_ Niko would do that creepy mind-reading thing. "He couldn't leave his phone, Niko. He knows I have to be able to get hold of him. He wouldn't leave it, no matter what he was thinking. Not after all we've been through."

Niko's intense gaze flicked over the room again, and then he said, in an absolutely calm voice, "They were taken. By someone or something."

Dean brushed past him and walked to the table, Sam's phone still clutched in his hand. Upon reaching it, he paused momentarily, then picked up one of the chairs and hurled it across the room, where it smashed into the wall and fell to the floor, minus one leg.

For a few moments, he stood there, facing the wall, trying to calm his heavy breathing.

"Can you think of who it could have been?" Niko asked. His voice was still infuriatingly calm, and Dean turned to scream at him, only to be stopped short by the look on Niko's face.

Niko looked…_scared._ It wasn't in his expression, or even in his eyes. In fact, his face was as absolutely calm as his voice. Even his stature was as easy as it ever got—but somehow, Dean could feel his fear as clearly as if it was radiating from him. He met Dean's eyes, and Dean felt that jolt again—but in a different way.

He was jolted because for the first time in his entire life, he was looking at someone who _knew._ He knew, without having to be told, what there was between him and Sam—a bond that went deeper than friendship or even family, forged by pain but kept and strengthened by everything else. He knew, because he'd _experienced_ it.

It was the first time Dean had ever _not_ had to try and explain (usually in vain) and it was the strangest feeling. And looking at Niko, he suddenly had the feeling that Niko—even though he was younger than Dean, younger than Sam, even—was also someone to be confided in.

Maybe even—possibly—a friend.

Dean tore his gaze away and took a long, slow breath. By the time he finished that one breath, a plan was forming in his mind, and he realized that without even thinking he'd included Niko in it.

"Okay," he said, turning back to face Niko again. "Okay," he repeated, steeling himself to do something he'd never done before. "We'll do it your way."

XXX

Cal was waking up.

Sam didn't think Michael noticed, and it didn't seem like a good idea to say anything, so he just glanced in that direction once in awhile, sneaky, waiting patiently as Cal's eyelids twitched, his forehead crinkling slightly.

Michael had been talking for awhile, and Sam had actually listened to some of it—at least, enough to have gotten an idea of what this was all about.

Apparently, he _had_ killed this guy's daughter. She'd been a nurse at the hospital he'd escaped from—the one whose neck he had snapped throwing her against a wall. And after that Michael had decided he was going to pay for it.

And, it appeared, all this was him paying for it, and Cal being dragged into it.

Michael had even gone so far as to explain the hows of it to Sam. He'd used tranquilizers, as he'd already said, to prevent a struggle, and when he'd taken Sam and Cal, he'd also taken Sam's bags, clearly indicating that they'd left on their own. According to Michael, this would prevent Dean from coming to look for him.

Even in his distant haze, Sam recognized a pathetic plan when he saw one, and he realized that Michael must have been even crazier than he'd initially thought.

He glanced at Cal again, and found his eyes open. Cal looked sharply at him and shook his head, and Sam took the hint and looked quickly back at Michael.

"So here we are," the man was saying, still pacing up and down. "I realize you'd probably like to apologize, and you'll get a chance to do so. I'm a gentleman, after all. But please don't waste too much time entertaining the idea that it'll work, all right? You'll just be disappointed."

"All right," Sam said agreeably, noticing that Cal was moving now, trying to push himself to his feet, his back against the wall. "I _am_ sorry, but I don't think you'll be convinced by that. Will you?"

He looked again, and found Cal almost on his feet. When he looked back, he noticed a strange look on Michael's face, but it was gone before he could decipher it.

"No, that's true," Michael went on. "It isn't likely that I'll be convinced. You know, your friend here is really very stupid."

He said the last part so smoothly that Sam didn't even register the sudden change of topic. Then, without the slightest change of expression, he turned around and raised his gun.

He pulled the trigger, and for the first time in almost fifteen years, Sam flinched at the sound of gunfire.

* * *

_Author's Note: Okay, so I'm kind of torn about this chapter. On the one hand, I really like some of the scenes with Dean and Niko. But on the other hand, I had such a hard time writing Michael from someone else's point of view. I don't know if he came off as too crazy/creepy or not crazy/creepy enough, or what. Either way, I'm tired of thinking about it, so I'm just gonna post it and see what you guys think, since you're really the ones who matter, anyways._

_So, tell me what you think!_

_Oh, and also, on the Adara-chan Is Too Busy for Her Own Good front—I actually played a VIDEOGAME today! That's right! I officially have time again, to do fun stuff like watch movies and beta fics and stuff! It's really cool…_

_Anyways, enough of my babbling. R&R, please!_


	9. A Shooting

Chapter 8

Niko's way actually appeared to be—at least on the surface—nothing more than a condensed version of Dean's way. He got on his phone and made a call to someone called Robin Goodfellow or something weird like that—and from the sound of it Robin Goodfellow was a man who did not know when to shut up.

Dean, for his part, just sat on his bed and raged at his own impotency. Niko had assured him that this would work faster than even going to the cops would, but Dean couldn't see how calling one guy would turn the trick and find their little brothers. On the other hand, Niko was undoubtedly one of the most professional—not to mention older-brotherly—people he'd ever met, and _he_ seemed to have no doubt that this would work.

But never in his life had Dean sat on the sidelines and watched someone _else_ work to save his brother. He wasn't liking it so much.

He was still dwelling on it when Niko hung up the phone.

"Well?" he asked, and if there was a little bit of a snap in his voice, well, he figured Niko would know its source.

"He's calling me back in five minutes."

"Okay. Well, who else can you call?"

"No one," Niko said calmly.

"Excuse me?"

"That was it," Niko said, gesturing to his phone. "Robin will take it from here."

"Uh…no," Dean said, already reaching for his own cell.

"Who are you calling?"

"The cops."

"You don't need to do that. I've taken care of it."

"You made one phone call. To a guy named _Goodfellow."_

"Dean, relax," Niko said gently. "I know how you feel, but Robin will come through. He always does."

"How can you sit here like that? So _calm?_ Both our brothers could be hurt—" _Or worse. _"—right now, in case you've—"

"I haven't forgotten," Niko said quietly. "Not for a single moment."

Dean took a breath, was about to reply, when the phone rang, and Niko picked it up, looking mildly surprised. "That was fast," he murmured, before opening it and putting it to his ear. "Anything?"

Dean watched impatiently, drumming his fingers on his leg, as Niko listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. Then, quite suddenly, the other man hung up the phone and stood up.

"Apartment building on Sixty-Eighth. Someone brought in two 'sick' guys an hour or two ago. Come on."

Dean stared at him as he headed out the door. "You've got to be _kidding_ me," he muttered as he followed.

Seriously, it was cool that he got the answers so fast and all, but that was just _wrong…_

XXX

The fire took a big leap after Michael shot Cal. It was probably a significant thing, that, but Sam didn't have the focus or energy to try and figure it out. Instead, he just lay there and watched the flames with mild interest while Michael paced in front of him, probably talking to him, maybe even thinking he was listening. He wasn't, though—he was too busy being angry.

Actually, being angry felt…kind of cool. He hadn't let himself feel the emotion in so long, but when Michael pulled the trigger it had come crashing over him, wave after wave after wave. And yet…and yet, he did nothing, because there was still that wall there that kept him from even trying to act on the emotions.

So he just lay there, fiery knives shooting up and down his arm, resolutely not looking at Cal's body and waiting for the inevitable crashes and slams that would signal Dean's whirlwind arrival. When Dean came, Michael would pay for his crime.

But…he couldn't help thinking, distantly, that it didn't matter. Not really. Because at the end of the day, Niko would still have lost his brother. He would still have to experience the pain that Sam wouldn't wish on anyone, ever.

Michael suddenly stopped talking, and Sam looked up to find him staring down and looking, for the first time, calm. No, not even that—peaceful. He looked peaceful, and Sam began to get a very bad feeling.

"So that's it," Michael said. "It's time, I guess." The gun in his hand came up, but he didn't point it—not yet. Instead, he looked at Sam and said quietly, "I know I won't get away with it. I do realize that. I'll get caught—maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the day after, but someday." He looked away for a moment, and then nearly whispered, "I just thought you should know."

And then he lifted the gun, and just as Sam had expected all along, the door exploded inwards.

XXX

Dean had been trying very hard not to picture what must be happening to his brother right now, and as such he hadn't prepared himself for what he'd find when he kicked down the door to the apartment building's basement. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't have snapped so completely.

Michael didn't even have time to turn around before Dean aimed for his leg and pulled the trigger. Dean didn't pause to watch his collapse, but instead ran to Sam and fell to his knees. Sam stared at him with wide eyes as he began fumbling with the chains binding his brother's wrists.

"Dean…" he said, in a pathetic voice that was closer to a whimper.

"Shh, Sammy, I know. I'm here now. It's gonna be okay…"

"No, Dean, you don't understand. Cal…"

Something about the way he said it caused Dean's stomach to clench, and he turned to look in the other direction for the first time.

He really wished he hadn't.

Cal was lying inert on the floor, his own hands bound in an unbelievably awkward position, and there was so much blood that it was impossible to tell what had even opened him up in the first place. Beside him, Niko knelt his back to Dean and Sam, his hand on Cal's shoulder, utterly still, head bowed, and Dean's stomach disappeared entirely at the sight.

"I didn't mean…he just wanted me…and Cal was just _there…_it shouldn't have…" Sam babbled, his eyes growing wider with every word, his breathing hitched. Dean recognized a full-blown panic attack when he saw one, and reached out to grip Sam's shoulder firmly, the other hand still locked on the chains. Sam's eyes met his, some of the pain bleeding over. "Dean…he's…"

"He's alive."

Niko's voice was quiet, but then he turned to Dean and met his eyes, and again Dean could see his terror plainly.

"He's alive, but we need to go. Now."

"You take him," Dean said abruptly, the need for hurry making him short. "Out to my car. I'll finish up down here."

"_Hurry," _Niko hissed, and then he was gently lifting Cal in his arms and heading for the door, not even pausing to glance at Michael, who was still lying motionless on the floor.

Sam looked far from comforted when Dean turned back to him. _"Dean,"_ he whimpered again, that being one of the only things he seemed capable of saying coherently.

"Didn't you hear, kiddo?" Dean said soothingly, finally feeling the chains start to give a little. "He's alive. He's gonna be fine, okay?"

"He wanted me," Sam repeated. "Cal was just there…and…_Dean…"_

"Hey," Dean said quietly, leaning forward until Sam met his eyes. "Listen to me, okay? I'm here now. I'm gonna get you outta here, and we're gonna get Cal to a hospital, and everything's gonna be _fine."_

It was then that he noticed that Sam was shaking, and he started working harder on the chains, suddenly wanting to give Sam one of the hugs he was getting _way_ too used to.

"Dean, my arm hurts."

Dean froze. "Oh, man, I'm sorry, Sam, I forgot."

"He stepped on it. It hurts, Dean."

He sounded calmer now that he was talking about his own pain, but Dean had exactly the opposite reaction. His hands went immediately to Sam's arm, and it didn't take too long to ascertain that the splint was no longer doing its job—Sam's arm was broken.

And Dean was too busy trying to reign in his bloodlust that his hunter's instincts failed. It was only for a moment, but it was enough.

It was enough because he didn't even register it when Michael pushed himself up, took up his gun, and leapt forward to smash it over Dean's head.

XXX

The flames were almost upon him when Dean started unchaining him. He could see them licking at his legs, creeping closer to envelope him. They froze when Dean's hands fell on his arms, his shoulders, his wrists, and his voice broke over Sam, quiet and soothing—but they didn't retreat. They stayed where they were until Niko said Cal was alive, and then they backed off—almost a whole inch.

He zoned out a little after that, but when he returned, it was to the fair certainty that he'd done some major babbling. He wasn't sure what he'd said, but whatever it was, it made Dean go pale with anger, his hands suddenly becoming so gentle that Sam could barely feel them brushing against his broken arm.

And whatever it was, it made him angry enough that he didn't notice Michael getting to his feet and limping forward to hit him over the head with his gun.

Dean fell flat on the floor, Michael dropped the gun and himself next to Dean, his hands locked around Dean's throat as he lay dazed, and Sam was swallowed completely by the flames for the second time in his life.

XXX

Niko was not feeling terribly patient tonight, and fifty-seven seconds after he emerged from the apartment building, he was on the very verge of calling Robin for a car or hotwiring Dean's. He'd already decided to give Dean exactly thirty more seconds, and then he was gone.

The only problem was…gone _where?_

Beside him, Cal lay limp, his head in Niko's lap, Niko's arm around him, holding him close. If he was in any pain, he didn't show it—he'd barely roused to consciousness even when Niko pressed a hand over the wound in his stomach to try and stop the bleeding, which Niko knew from experience to hurt like hell. He wasn't complaining, and it was worrying Niko more than he cared to admit.

Ten seconds had passed. That left twenty until Niko took Cal to…

_Where?_

"Stay with me, Cal," he muttered absently, his free hand resting on Cal's clammy forehead. Fifteen seconds. "You're not leaving now, or ever. I swear, if you do…" He left the threat hanging, mentally promising all manner of punishments should Cal decide to walk into the stupid, thrice-damned white light that he really should've known to stay away from by now.

Ten seconds left now. Cal's blood wasn't coming quite so fast now, and Niko tried to believe that wasn't a bad thing.

Five seconds left.

At twenty-seven seconds, the sound of a gunshot split the air.

XXX

The first thought to break through Dean's impact-induced haze was that this guy must've been more insane than they'd thought—or just really, extremely motivated. 'Cause gunshot wounds _hurt_, and what was he doing running around bashing people's heads in with a bullet in his leg?

The second thought was…well…_ouch._

Then the hands locked around his throat and he pretty much ceased to think anything but, _Oh, God, this is Sam's freaky fetish, not mine…wait, where's the air? Okay, kinda hard to breathe now…why can't I move? This can't seriously be the way I'm gonna die, right?_

The thought freaked him out a lot more than it should've, and he finally began to struggle, but weakly. Too weakly. He was seriously going to die here. It was just too ridiculous to comprehend.

Darkness was encroaching on the corners of his vision when the gun went off, once, twice, and then a third time.

At first, he was sure Michael had shot him by accident, and was waiting with resignation for the pain when the hands strangling him suddenly loosened and a huge, heavy weight fell on him.

For a few minutes, he could only lay there and wheeze, before panic set in—_Sam—_and he started to shove Michael's dead weight—God, _literally_—off of him. It took a moment, but finally he was on his feet, facing Sam.

Sam, who was chainless and standing, the gun still aimed and held in a perfectly steady hand, and a look of steely determination in his suddenly-clear brown eyes.

* * *

_Author's Note: Sorry, everyone! I meant to have this up sooner, really, but _no one_ would cooperate! Not Sam, not Dean, not Niko, not Michael, not my muses, not the silly people who make my work schedule, NO ONE. To make it worse, this chapter was _horrible_ to write, and I never did manage to make myself completely satisfied with it—mostly, but not quite._

_Secondly, if anyone has been sending me any messages, reviews, or anything like that lately, and I haven't been replying, it's because I haven't been getting them. I've been having a little trouble receiving some of my mail, so I'm really sorry. I don't know if I ever _will_ get them, unless they're sent all over again._

_And last, a very special thanks to Faye Dartmouth, who didn't seem to mind at all when I PMed her at one in the morning asking where the best place was to shoot Cal if I wanted to hurt him badly, but not kill him—even though I'm pretty sure she didn't have the faintest idea who I was—and who didn't even laugh at me when I made the mistake of thinking she was some kind of doctor or nurse. Seriously, she's one of the coolest people ever, and if you've been living in a hole somewhere and haven't read her stories, go do that right now!_


	10. Good Connections

Chapter 9

Dean was strategizing before he even started moving, but he wasn't thinking about the still body lying on the floor with the three bullet holes in its back. God knew it would cause enough trouble later, but trouble with the law they could deal with.

But if Sam had gone crazy on him again…

_No, no, no, God, please, no…_

By the time he reached Sam, he was already mentally listing the pros and cons of calling on Cal and Niko's contacts again, so deep in disaster mode that he didn't even notice Sam staring at him. Moving as gingerly as if Sam were a ticking bomb, Dean gently disentangled the gun from Sam's grip and slipped it into the waistband of his jeans, all the while murmuring quietly.

"It's okay, Sam, it's gonna be fine, we'll be okay, you'll see, just…"

"Dean."

Sam's voice was quiet, but it cut through Dean's rambling easier than any knife and he fell abruptly silent and raised his eyes to meet his brother's.

"Dean," Sam repeated, gently, like Dean was the one who needed comforting. "I'm fine."

And then he proceeded to very eloquently prove his point by fainting dead away, and wasn't Dean going to mock _that_ later?

XXX

Dean's back would not forgive him for this quickly, he knew, but as he deposited Sam in the passenger's seat, he couldn't bring himself to care. Sam started to stir as Dean maneuvered him into a more comfortable position, and Dean ran a hand over his hair before closing the door and darting around to the driver's side.

In the back, Niko was holding onto Cal as if the younger man would disappear if he let go, but Cal seemed too out of it to notice, drifting and out of consciousness.

"Where were you?" Niko asked sharply, though quietly. Beside him, Cal shifted, his brow furrowing in apparent reaction to the tension, and Niko patted his arm soothingly.

"It's been sixty seconds," Dean replied, already pulling out of the motel lot and digging for his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?" Niko asked.

"Hospital."

"I can't take him to a hospital," Niko said. His voice was calm, his eyes anything but.

"I figured," Dean replied, with every attempt at the soothing voice he was only really used to applying to Sam. "Different hospital."

"That does nothing to solve my problem."

Dean turned down the street to his and Sam's motel and said, "Look, I know it's not safe to take Cal to a hospital, and the kid may bug me, but I'm not gonna cause him to get locked up in a lab somewhere. I'm calling someone who'll help, okay?"

Something in his tone seemed to rankle Niko, but before he could say another word Dean was being transferred and—finally—talking to the person he'd actually called.

"Hey, Doc, it's Dean Samuels. Listen, I need your help again, but it has to be a secret. Again."

XXX

"No."

Niko's voice was flat, but it promised retribution. Dean sighed inwardly and straightened up from where he'd been leaning over Sam.

"Niko, come on."

"No."

"What other choice do you have?" Dean pressed, sitting down on the edge of Sam's bed. "You already said no hospitals, so unless you're gonna tell me you're close personal friends with a doctor who happens to know about supernatural creatures and won't mind that your brother is set up differently, I don't see another option."

Niko was silent for a moment. Then he said, "If I find you've put Cal in any danger at all, I will kill you, and this doctor."

As usual, his threat was more a cool promise, and Dean felt his muscles tense a little in automatic reaction. He managed to keep his voice down, though, in deference to the little brothers currently present.

"Duly noted. Will you sit down already?"

Niko stood utterly still for a moment, and then almost whispered, as if to himself, "I'm glad he's dead. It saves me from having to kill him myself."

Dean really wasn't sure how to answer that, because truthfully, he knew the feeling.

XXX

"I'm really not comfortable with this."

Niko quirked an eyebrow ever-so-slightly and said, "I can't begin to think why."

Dr. Thornton smiled a little at that. "That's true. But I was actually talking about doing surgery in an unsterilized motel room without a chart or a medical history to work with. Feels a little too much like violating the Hippocratic Oath, especially if something goes wrong."

"Nothing will go wrong," Niko informed him, but it wasn't a reassurance.

"Look," the doctor said, sounding unaffected. "I'm authorized as a psychologist _and_ a surgeon, one of the few people who can claim such. I'm good at what I do and I can keep a secret. If there's anyone you want to do this for you, I'm a pretty good pick. But I refuse to promise you that this will go perfectly, because this kind of surgery sucks under the best of conditions—which these are not. But I'll still do it, because Dean asked me to. I'd just prefer not to do it with threats over my head." He barely paused to let his speech sink in before asking, "So are you all staying for this, or are you going?"

"I'm staying," Niko said.

"It'll be messy."

"I'm staying."

"And we're going," Dean broke in. "I need to take Sam to get his arm taken care of." He leaned over Sam as he spoke and said quietly, "Sammy? Hey, I need you to wake up, kiddo."

"'M awake," Sam mumbled. "Why 'm I awake?"

Dean chuckled. "You're awake because we need to get you to a doctor."

"But you called a doctor. Still don't know why you did that…"

"Yeah, but see, that doctor doesn't have the nice cast to keep your bones from poking through your skin. And if we go to the hospital, you can have morphine. You like morphine, remember?"

"Yeah…morphine feels good…" Sam said, already pushing himself up gingerly with his good hand. Dean slid an arm around him to help, and once they were vertical, he turned to Dr. Thornton and said, "We'll be back in a few hours. And…thanks. He'll tell you that, too," he added, jerking his head at Niko, "as soon as you finish saving his brother."

"And then I get an explanation. At least part of one?"

"Uh…sure," Dean lied, and then started carting Sam out of the motel room.

XXX

As a hunter, Dean had been in a lot of surreal situations, situations others would relegate strictly to the "unbelievable stories" category. He was used to them and rarely did they make him so much as bat an eye.

But he had _never_ been in such a string of weird occurrences as he'd been living in the last couple weeks. First, he'd gone to pseudo-hell. Then he'd come back to an insane and homicidal brother, and had to team up with a half-monster and _his_ ninja of a brother to contain the disaster. And then he'd gotten Sam back, only he was less Sam-like, and he'd apparently killed four people. And _then_ he'd actually talked to a psychologist who was most certainly _not_ a hunter on the side, gone on a hunt with someone who wasn't Sam or Bobby, and lost Sam a second time.

And now he was sitting in a hospital waiting room while back at his motel, a doctor he'd called on a whim and a prayer was doing emergency surgery on a stripped bed, which was as close to sterile as they could get.

And later, he got to look forward to trying to _explain_ to Dr. Thornton that which…really couldn't be explained.

He needed a plan. He _knew_ he needed a plan, and a backup plan, and a backup plan for the backup plan, and a way to get the hell out of Dodge, if need be.

And he needed to figure out what was up with Sam. Was he…back to normal now? He'd _looked_ normal earlier, before he'd face-planted. His eyes hadn't been cloudy or empty anymore, and neither had his face. But he hadn't exactly been nailing down the verbal skills since then, so Dean really didn't know what to think.

It was all so insane, on a whole new level of insane, and Dean really wanted to the roller coaster to just _stop_ now.

XXX

Sam was flying high by the time Dean was finally allowed to see him. They'd done up his arm in a serious way—it was covered hand to elbow in a plaster cast and even stuck in a sling for good measure. He didn't seem to mind, though—he was sitting on one of the hospital beds, long legs dangling over the side, grinning like a fool.

"Hi, Dean," he said, raising his good arm in a wave.

"Hey, Sammy. How're you feeling?" Dean asked, taking a seat next to his brother.

"I feel good," Sam said, still smiling. "I always forget how much fun morphine is."

"Yeah, me, too, especially when it's in you," Dean said with a laugh. "So your arm's not hurting you?"

Sam appeared to be thinking about it, then said, "Probably. But I don't feel it. So it's okay." Suddenly he reached out and grabbed Dean's wrist and said seriously, "We're gonna have to fill me in later."

"About…what, exactly?" Dean asked slowly.

Sam though again. "I don't remember. It's important, though. I think." Then his grin reappeared. "I feel good."

"Uh…yeah, you said that already," Dean said, placing a hand under Sam's good arm. "Time to go home, Sammy. Step up."

"Can we take the morphine?"

"Um…no. But the doc gave me some of the good stuff."

"Oh. Okay. Dean, is Cal dead?"

The question was voiced in the same drunken reel of a tone as everything else Sam had said in this conversation, and as such it took Dean a second to even realize what he'd asked. When he did, though, his reply was instantaneous.

"No, Sammy, he's alive."

"Is he gonna stay alive?"

Not seeing any other option, Dean replied in the affirmative and sincerely hoped he wasn't lying.

XXX

Sam felt _good._ Everything was pleasantly fuzzy, but not in the way it had been for the last week since Dean had returned. That fuzziness had felt completely wrong, like a hastily-constructed wall that nevertheless could not be torn down by mere human hands.

But _this_ fuzziness—well, he was used to it, sick as that was, and even more, it kept him from _thinking._ It made it easier to lock away the night's events in the back of his mind, to ignore what had happened and what he'd done.

And he needed to forget all that almost as much as he needed to _sleep._ He'd forgotten how exhausting any emergency room visit was. Dean had to practically carry him to the Impale—and oh, he'd _missed_ being in the Impala, more than he'd ever expected to—and by the time it started up, Sam was dozing, his head resting against the window and Metallica blaring around him.

He lost track of time, and the next thing he knew the door under his head was swinging away and he was listing off to the side before Dean pulled him back and up out of the car.

"D'n?" he mumbled, trying to get his wobbly legs steady.

"Yeah," Dean replied, sounding distracted.

"Hi," Sam said, feeling himself begin to grin. He was gonna feel so stupid tomorrow…

He heard Dean laugh a little. "Hi."

"'Re we home?"

"Yeah. Well, close enough, anyway." They stepped and Sam heard Dean fumbling with his keys. Then they were entering the motel room, and Dean was talking to someone, and Sam felt that he should open his eyes and see what was going on but his eyelids felt too heavy, so he kept them closed.

Dean kept on talking as he lowered Sam to the bed. Sam muttered something that was supposed to be "Thanks," but probably sounded more like an incoherent blubber, as he turned over and buried his face in the pillow, his arm stretched out next to him.

And then he was falling asleep, Dean's soft chuckle following along.

XXX

"Is he gonna be okay?"

For some reason, Dean felt strange asking the question, and evidently Niko felt a little strange receiving it, if the way his eyes flicked over from Cal's face to Dean's before going back was any indication. But then he said, "He will." He sounded absolutely sure, and determined that if Cal somehow _wasn't_ okay, he would somehow change that. Then suddenly he looked over at Dean and said, as sincerely as if it had actually been his idea, "I apologize for our intrusion. I'll call Robin for a car if you'll just pass me my phone."

Dean shrugged. "Whatever. Don't bother if you don't want to. I'm probably gonna sleep over here tonight anyway."

Niko's eyes were trained on Cal's face again, but Dean heard the quietly spoken, "Thank you," all the same.

He seemed to be done talking after that, though, so Dean was out of excuses or distractions. He had no choice but to turn to Dr. Thornton, who had been waiting with admirable patience, and say, "Thanks for this, doc."

The doctor just kept staring at him.

"Um…it was really nice of you."

Dr. Thornton didn't even blink.

"And not saying anything or charging us or anything—we appreciate it."

Still no reply. Apparently the guy was waiting for something specific.

"Seriously. It was really great of you. Above and beyond and all that."

And apparently, whatever he was waiting for, the small talk wasn't distracting him from it. Dean sighed heavily and said, "Okay, fine, let's go outside."

"I think that'd be best," Dr. Thornton agreed. He sounded polite, but determined, and Dean was wondering how on earth he'd though Cal and Niko were worth it. They were hardly close friends, let alone people for whom Dean would've willingly gone through what he was going to go through as soon as he stepped out that door.

But as he got up to follow the doctor, Dean glanced over at Niko, and catching the look on his face—one that Dean had worn on his own face more than once—he suddenly remembered.

Well, partly, at least.

XXX

"So."

Dean adopted his customary pose of leaning against the door and repeated the single word. "So."

"Quite a night," Dr. Thornton continued casually.

"Wouldn't wanna repeat it," Dean agreed absently. "So is…uh….is Cal really gonna be okay?"

"Well, I got the bullet out and sewed him up," Dr. Thornton said. "Pretty much up to him now. Interesting thing, though," he continued, still light and friendly. "He shouldn't be okay. He should be dead right now, actually."

"What're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about bleeders, Dean, and how I had a ton of them. The kid should've bled out at least half a dozen times while I was working. And he did bleed a lot, but I didn't even have to give him saline."

"I…really don't know what that means."

"Long story short, he can apparently survive with about a quarter of the blood people usually need. Not healthily, but still."

Dean had seen something like this coming, naturally, but that didn't mean he had a clue how to respond.

Dr. Thornton came over to lean next to him, and a moment later, he said casually, "So you want to tell me what he is, or do you know?"

Dean started and turned abruptly to the doctor_. "What?"_

Dr. Thornton smiled. "So I'm guessing you know."

"Dude," Dean said slowly. "Who the hell_ are_ you?"

That drew a laugh. "Relax, Dean. I was telling the truth about my job. I really am just an M.D. slash psychologist who spent most of his life in med school. But this is New York City—you probably know what a supernatural cesspool it is. We need a lot of hunters coming through here, especially at the hospital, and as a therapist I get weird stories to go with the weird injuries, so I have a better chance of figuring it out than most."

"So…how much _do _you know, exactly?" Dean asked, trying to keep his voice level.

Dr. Thornton shrugged. "Well, about…probably at least fifteen years ago now…we got a guy in with some serious crap done to him. I'd just started trying to decode all the weird stuff that happens around here, and he was one of the people with weird injuries. So I, uh…" Here, the doctor looked a little embarrassed. "I waited until eh was doped up in recovery and then I asked him about it, told him I'd noticed weird stuff. It took _forever_, and two more doses of morphine, but I got the headlines out of him."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Nice methods. You use that with everyone?"

"_Anyway._ He told me he hunted supernatural stuff—ghosts, werewolves, all that. Then he started rambling about these kids of his, how he really needed to call and make sure they'd called the pastor, and after _that_ he started coming out of it a little and he looked really mad, so I skedaddled, because I figured he could probably kill me with his bedpan if he wanted to. Never saw him again. I remember his name, though—John Winters, or something like that."

Dean felt a sudden bitterness rising up in him, and tried desperately to keep it from showing on his face. _Well, guess that's one more thing my daddy never told me. Man, that list is getting long._

The doctor evidently took his silence as concern, because he said, "You don't have to worry, you know. I haven't said a word about all this to anyone in over fifteen years, and I'm not going to start now."

"Yeah. Thanks for that. And…everything else. God, I've never said that word so many times in one day."

"Well, I suggest you don't say it again, then."

Dean smiled at that, and this time the silence that fell was more comfortable. For a few minutes they stood quietly, and then Dr. Thornton said, "Well, I guess I should get going. Gotta sneak the surgical stuff back into the hospital and whatnot."

"Yeah, okay. Th—I mean, I'll see—g'night," Dean said, finally landing on a phrase that actually worked.

"Good night. Oh, by the way, I left my number in your drawer, in case Cal takes a turn for the worse or pulls his stitches or something."

"Th—"

"Don't finish that sentence."

"Right. Uh…bye, then."

Dr. Thornton was already walking away by then, but as Dean spoke he stopped and turned. "Oh, and one more thing. You should probably be a little more careful about your aliases."

"…Huh?"

"You used a different name every time you talked to me."

Dean felt himself blushing red. "Damn it. I'm usually so _good_ at that."

"I'd guess so. I believe that's what we call a Freudian slip. Good luck, Dean."

He winked, and then he got in his car and drove away.

* * *

_Author's Note: Okay, I admit it. I took _a lot_ of liberties with the medical world here. I know _nothing_ about surgical stuff and I have no clue where to find information on it. That's why I usually avoid chapters exactly like this one, but in this case that turned out to be pretty impossible. _

_Anyway, a friend gave me a little information, so I went on pure faith and used it, and if it's all wrong, and you find you can't ignore it, go ahead and throw things at me, 'cause it's completely my fault. And here's hoping no medical professionals are reading this…_

_But whether you liked it or had issues with it, I'd appreciate any and all reviews!_


	11. Good Talk

Chapter 10

Dean walked slowly back inside the motel room and went straight to the bed, collapsing onto it and folding his arms beneath his head. Beside him, Sam curled in closer, the fingers of his good hand clenching in the hem of Dean's shirt. Dean let him cling, but manfully resisted the urge to cling back—if shifting so that Sam's head was—coincidentally—resting against his shoulder could be considered "resisting."

God, it felt so good to _breathe_. He felt like he hadn't done it freely in…well, a long time. Between Sam, Niko, Cal, Dr. Thornton, Michael, and himself, he felt like he'd been suffocating under the weight of all their combined issues. But now Dr. Thornton was gone, Michael was…was dead, and Sam was—maybe—okay again, even if Dean wouldn't know that for sure until the kid woke up. Niko and Cal maybe weren't doing so good, but at least the load was lightened a little now.

As subtly as he could, Dean snuck a look toward the other bed. As far as he could tell, Niko hadn't so much as glanced up when he'd walked out of or into the room, and he didn't now, whether he knew Dean was watching him or not. His eyes didn't move from Cal's face and his hand didn't move from where it gripped Cal's. Dean felt his face grow red at the less-than-manly sight, but he managed not to turn away like he usually did when he saw things like this.

"How's he doing?" he asked instead, keeping his voice low so as not to interrupt either Sam or Cal's drug-induced sleep.

Niko's eyes finally flicked upward at the sound of his voice. "He'll be okay. He heals much more quickly than most." He didn't have to add the _Thank God_ aloud for Dean to hear it. He wasn't exactly forthcoming with the _Thank you, Dean,_ either, but that was okay, Dean supposed. Thank yous were sometimes hard to get out, he knew from experience.

"Well…uh…that's good," Dean said awkwardly.

"Yes," Niko agreed, his eyes back on Cal. "It is."

And then he stopped talking entirely, and Dean had nothing to do but shift into a more comfortable position—in other words, one even closer to Sam—and fall asleep easily for the first time in two weeks.

Niko's eyes were aching by the time Cal started to stir, at about four in the morning. They'd even come dangerously close to closing once or twice, but the urge toward sleep vanished immediately when Cal's head turned toward him and his eyes scrunched up like a child's. These weren't exactly classic Cal Leandros wake-up signs—he could usually go from a sound sleep to fully awake in a split second, as much as Niko mocked him for laziness—but then, his system _was_ pumping more pain medicine than blood right now.

It wasn't morphine, though, and so while it did manage to take a great deal of the edge off, it didn't entirely stop the look of pain from flitting across Cal's face as is eyes cracked open and he croaked out something that sounded faintly like, "Nik?"

Niko leaned forward and put a firm hand on Cal's shoulder, holding him in place as he tried to sit up. "Don't move. You'll ruin the stitching job."

"What?" Cal mumbled, staring up at him with glazed eyes. "Where's the stitches?"

"In your stomach," Niko answered.

"Oh. That why it hurts?"

"Yes."

"Why're they there?"

"Because the doctor put them there after he dug the bullet out."

Cal didn't say anything for a long time, probably trying to decide what to question first.

"…'M confused, Nik…"

Niko found himself smiling at that. "I know," he said gently, reaching out to run his fingers through Cal's hair. "I'll explain later."

"'M gonna hold you to that."

"You do that."

"Nik?"

"Hmm?"

"How long've you been holding my hand?"

Niko stared at him for a moment, then smiled. "Go back to sleep, Cal."

Cal blinked twice, and then his eyes closed a third time and didn't open again.

XXX

Niko was still awake and watchful when Dean woke up five or six hours after he fell asleep. It didn't look like he'd even gotten up, which was just creepy. Didn't the guy ever have to eat? Sleep? Visit the bathroom?

"Dude, are you even human?"

It was hard to say who was more surprised at the question, because Dean truly had not meant to ask it out loud, and apparently Niko just really thought it was a weird question. He replied as politely as ever, though.

"I am. Why do you ask?"

"Because," Dean said, levering himself up on his elbow and rubbing one of his eyes. "You've been sitting in the same position all night, and no human could do that."

"Evidently that isn't true, seeing as I have."

"Well, then, you're just a freak," Dean said, sitting up the rest of the way. "How's Cal doing?"

"He woke up for a minute or two a few hours ago. I should be able to take him back home soon." He looked over then and asked, "And Sam?"

Dean looked fondly over at his brother, whom he suspected would soon produce drool. "I dunno what's going on in that freaky head of his, but physically he'll be fine. He'll be out for a few more hours, though—pain meds always knock him for six."

Sam's uninjured hand twitched just then, then came up to scratch his nose before falling back to his side again, and the words were tumbling out before Dean could stop them.

"D'you ever feel like you have absolutely no power? Like basically your life revolves around Cal and you can't do anything about it—and don't really want to?"

Niko smiled. "Yes, I really do, every day."

Dean chuckled. "Seriously. Why bother with a wife if you already have a little brother?"

"Would you really have it any other way?" Niko asked.

Dean looked back at Sam, and smiled. "Ya know, I really wouldn't."

And really, he was glad he had a trauma-filled week to excuse his undeniable chick-flickiness. Otherwise he'd have to kick his own ass—many, many times.

XXX

Sam swam toward consciousness clinging to the very random thought that he really shouldn't be so susceptible to pain meds after so long. There was absolutely no reason he should feel like he was wading through a bog when all he was _really_ doing was trying to wake up.

But even with the pain-med-sleep-crash-arm-pain combo, he was still thinking more clearly than he had in a while. It hadn't worn off, like he'd half-expected it to—the clarity apparently wasn't just temporary.

He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that. Part of him was over the moon about it, because he knew his cloudy fuzziness had been causing Dean no end of pain and worry. But…well, clarity also meant thought and memory and a large part of Sam's mind shrunk away from that.

But for better or worse, the clarity was there, and he was just going to have to deal with it.

With a small inward sigh, Sam turned over on his side. He grimaced as the movement jarred his arm, and just like that, Dean was there.

That it was Dean was simply an irrevocable, unequivocal fact, a fact of life. He didn't have to see to know. It could have been no one else slipping an arm around his shoulders and guiding him up, leaning him against the pillows as if he hadn't known they were there.

He hadn't opened his eyes, but he did then, realizing—all-knowing, all-awesome little brother that he was—that until he did, Dean would worry about his sanity.

Dean was, of course, hovering, and probably had been while he was unconscious, too. Sam smiled at him, and was surprised at how easy it was. Dean looked startled, but hid it well and asked easily, "How're you feeling, Sammy?"

"I'm fine," Sam replied. Then he noticed that Dean was looking resolutely at the cast on his arm, and he said gently, "Dean. Hey. Look at me."

Reluctantly, Dean met his eyes, and Sam repeated his words as firmly as he could.

"I'm _fine,_ Dean."

Dean stared at him, doing that weird, borderline creepy thing where he searched for something Sam wasn't even sure was there. He could always tell when Dean found it, though, and that, at least, hadn't change, because he could certainly tell now. He could see the moment when Dean found it—when the tension of his muscles eased and the lines around his eyes faded a little.

But he hadn't expected what Dean did next, which was to sit down heavily on the bed and cover his face with one hand and put the other hand on Sam's knee and mutter, "Jesus, Sammy."

Sam…really wasn't sure what to say. Dean just looked so _vulnerable_, and Dean _never_ looked vulnerable.

Well, except when he came to get Sam at college.

And when he went on that plane.

And when they'd gone back to Lawrence.

And when Dad went missing that second time.

And when Dad died.

Okay, so Dean had had more vulnerable moments lately. But not…exactly under these circumstances. It was awkward, and Sam automatically began casting around for another subject. As luck would have it, one was lying on the bed not three feet away.

Cal looked…not so good. And Niko looked even worse. Well, more tired, anyway. He looked exactly like Dean looked after a sleepless, worry-filled night, exactly, and Sam felt shame sweep over him.

"Oh, Niko, I'm so sorry."

Weird. He hadn't been _planning_ to say that, and Niko looked just as taken aback as he felt.

"Excuse me?"

"This is all my fault," Sam blurted. "Cal was just trying to protect me, and now he's…" Sam shook his head, hearing the borderline desperation in his own voice as he asked, "He's gonna be okay, right?"

"Yes," Niko said, and Sam wondered if he was imagining the quiet relief there, or if he was the only one who heard it. "I plan to take him home today—between doses, I suppose."

"Are you sure you want to?" Sam asked, all the while wondering why his words seemed to be totally out of his control. "I mean—you can, ya know, stay. If you want."

"Thank you," Niko said. "But…we take care of our own, for the most part."

Sam glanced over at Dean. "Yeah. I know that."

"I'm sure you do. I assume that's why your brother was so uncomfortable working with me."

Dean had the grace to look a bit sheepish. "Hey, it's not…I mean, I…it's…"

Niko waited patiently for him to finish stuttering, then said, "I understand. I felt the same way. It was…strange."

"That's one word for it, yeah. So are you guys gonna need a ride or…anything?"

Watching his brother struggle, it occurred to Sam to wonder when they'd gotten so bad at even _talking_ to someone outside the family. When had they become so screwed up? Was it a specific moment that he'd missed? That _they'd_ missed? Was it something that could have been rectified, changed, if he'd looked for it?

And suddenly, for no reason at all, Sam felt incredibly sad. For himself, for Dean, for Niko, for Cal—for all of them, and all the rest of the hunting community who were probably living the same way, with the same distrust.

Without any way to change, and most even without the desire to.

"Sam? Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said instantly, tuning in to the upped worry in Dean's voice. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are," Dean said, in his unmistakable, "I could not believe you less, but we'll argue about that later" voice. That particular promise was one Dean _always_ stuck to, and Sam suddenly felt profoundly grateful for Niko and Cal's continued presence, however long it lasted.

XXX

True to his word, Niko called his apparent jack-of-all-trades, Robin, and pulled a favor to get a car from him, and carted a half-conscious, confused and mumbling Cal out of the motel room within the hour, taking any hope of Dean being distracted with him. It simply couldn't be avoided anymore—they really were going to "talk about it."

And when did he and Dean suddenly switch roles, anyway?

God, this had been..

"Weird week, huh?"

Sam started as the end of his sentence was spoken aloud, then gave Dean a wry look. "Just a little."

Dean crossed the room and lowered himself to the bed, and after a few moments of silence he asked, "So should we…y'know…avoid the subject awkwardly for awhile, or dive right in?"

Sam looked away and didn't answer, and heard Dean's sigh.

"What happened, Sam?"

Sam considered dissembling, avoiding, evading, but Dean was pinning him with that gentle but determined gaze that always promised no mercy and no escape. It was useless to pretend he didn't know exactly what his brother was talking about.

"After you…after you left…there was this fire…"

XXX

"Ouch."

The word was quiet, muttered, through a haze of sleep and drugs and barely even recognizable as a word, but Niko responded to it instantly. Cal listened to him cross the room and to the creak of wood as he sat down, and then repeated himself with great care.

"_Ouch."_

He cracked his eyes open to glare at his brother, who was looking down at him—and _smiling._

"'M dying, aren't I?"

It was actually kind of surprising how fast Niko managed to lose that smile. "Of course not," he said. "You're going to be just fine."

"Nik," Cal said patiently. "Joking. Drugs?"

"Not for another forty-two minutes," Niko said, tapping the watch on his wrist.

Cal groaned. "Great."

"Yes, if it wouldn't rip a hole in your stomach I would suggest a jig," Niko said dryly, reaching out and giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

"Hole?" Cal asked, confusedly trying to lift his shirt so he could see his stomach.

The hand looped around his wrist became more restraining, pulling his hands away, and Niko said, "Don't do that."

"Why not? Hurts. Want to see why it hurts."

"It hurts because you were shot, and I won't let you look because it's too much movement. Besides, you don't want to see it. It wasn't the most sterile environment or the smoothest surgery. The wound is…not pretty."

By the time Niko finished reeling it all off, Cal's mind had cleared enough to remember what had happened—well, some of it.

"Nik, you need to start filling me in. Who did this surgery…thing?"

"A surgeon, of course," Niko replied, as calmly as if it were a totally natural thing for his not-entirely-human little brother to be put under the knife of a complete stranger in a motel room. "His name was Thornton. Dr. Thornton."

"And where did you get this, uh, surgeon?" Cal asked, dreading the answer but needing to know all the same.

"I didn't kidnap him," Niko said, to the point as always. "I was planning on it, but Dean, of all people, pulled an M.D. out of his pocket at the last moment."

"And you just let him do surgery on me?" Cal asked skeptically.

"I didn't have any _choice_, Cal!" Niko said, suddenly sounding agitated—and possibly angry. "You were dying. So yes, I allowed a stranger to perform surgery on you. Believe me, though, he knew the consequences, should the surgery take a turn for the worse."

"Aww, you look out for me."

"And don't you ever forget it."

Cal smiled at him. "I won't. Hey, how many—"

"Thirty-seven," Niko said, looking at his watch.

Cal groaned again.

XXX

"So this…fire, whatever it was, is gone now?" Dean asked carefully, lounging next to Sam, his face not betraying anything of what he was thinking.

"I think so," Sam said quietly. "It…I dunno, I guess it brought me back, and then it…left."

"And this is the same thing that made you…you know…"

"Insane?" Sam asked, wryly, and Dean grimaced.

"Yeah, that."

"Well, I guess so. I mean, they _looked_ the same. Different results, though."

"Very," Dean agreed companionably, and for a while neither of them said anything more.

"I'd kill Michael again, you know," Sam said suddenly, finally looking up at Dean. "If he was trying to hurt you, I mean. I don't think I'd even hesitate."

"I know the feeling," Dean said.

"But…" Sam looked back down, then up again. "I've still killed five people—people who weren't even possessed. "And…I don't know how to deal with that."

"I know," Dean repeated. "Neither do I, really. But…we will. We _will,_ Sam."

"How?" Sam asked, not even caring that he sounded like a child.

"I don't know. But we will. We'll do what we have to. Everything's gonna be fine, Sammy."

Sam looked at his brother and saw open earnestness where before there'd been nothing, and there was less skepticism in his voice than he was trying for when he said, "Okay."

* * *

_Author's Note: Okay, guys, so do any of you remember that book from elementary school, _The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day?_ Well, take that day and stretch the badness of it into a month, and then cram that month into seven days, and you have my week. That's how bad things were. I barely had time to write anything until a couple of days ago. Ask anyone who talks to me, and they'll tell you I've barely been online at all. Things have calmed down now, but on the downside, my deadline for my AP summer work is closing in—August 1—and I still have half a paper to write and two books to read._

_So, the bottom line is, my updates shouldn't take much longer than usual, but things may come out in drips and drabs until the end of the month._

_Anyways, review, please, now that I was finally able to update!_


	12. True Brothers

Chapter 11

Sam didn't feel much better by morning, but he'd gotten better at pretending he felt better, so that was progress, at least.

For the first time in a while, Dean had slept in the other bed, but…that was okay. It was important for the to do that, Sam knew. He'd woken with nightmares a few times as a result of the sudden distance, but each time, Dean had woken with him, had slid out of bed and crouched next to him, soothing him with a hand in his hair and soft murmurs of, "It's okay, Sam, I'm still here, we're gonna be fine." Each time he'd waited until Sam was asleep before going back to his own bed, only to leave it again the next time Sam woke.

Despite the rough night, though, Dean still looked better the next morning than he had all week. He'd gotten less sleep, and yet he looked more rested. He'd regained some of his old swagger, too, and finally looked more like a twenty-seven-year-old hunter than the fifty-year-old refugee of some war-torn country.

And he'd ordered in breakfast, or maybe gone and picked it up. But he'd gotten it somehow, and had it set out on the table by the time Sam sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean greeted him with a quick, but genuine, grin. "Hope you feel like getting up, 'cause I'm seriously not serving breakfast in bed, dude."

"Mm…hungry…" Sam muttered, surprised. It was…nice, actually—feeling things as normal as hunger again—and Dean looked even happier about it than he felt. Moving awkwardly, Sam lurched to his feet and over to their little table. He felt better for the general forward movement, and by the time he sat down, he'd managed to temporarily shove away his roiling emotions in favor of shoving food into his mouth as fast as humanly possible.

Or possibly faster. He wasn't quite sure.

XXX

Cal slept for a solid fifteen hours or so—coming to only when Niko came to press pain pills on him in the night—and woke feeling considerably more lucid, if stiff as a board. All in all, he felt better. More Cal-like.

And, in a very Cal-like fashion, he decided he didn't feel like being awake just yet. Having reached this conclusion, he was just about to let himself drift off again when he smelled it—_food._

Once again sticking to his true—and, as he felt, stunning—colors, Cal was unable to resist that particular call, and in a second he was opening his eyes and craning his neck to see out the door toward the kitchen/living room table without too much movement.

"You won't get anywhere that way," Niko said from the chair he'd spent the night in.

Cal turned to look at him and said succinctly, "I'm hungry."

"Color me shocked beyond all reason," Niko replied, already standing up and leaning over him to put a strong arm around his shoulders and lift him easily into a seated position.

"Jeez, Nik, I can make it to the table on my own," Cal mumbled in embarrassment as Niko swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"Do you honestly believe that?" Niko asked.

"Well…no," Cal admitted after a moment's pause. "But…almost, right?"

"Yes. Almost." He pulled Cal carefully to his feet, and once they were both upright, asked, "Are you okay?" Cal nodded a reply, and let Niko support him as they made their slow way to the table.

The first thing Cal noticed when they reached it was that Niko had pulled out all the stops. You name the breakfast food, and chances were it was on the table. Pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, eggs over easy, eggs up—basically the entire egg family—French toast, sausage, cinnamon rolls, bagels, biscuits—and that was just the food. There was also milk, water, and five different kinds of juice.

"Nik, I know you have certain opinions where my eating habits are concerned, but even I can't pack this much away," Cal said, staring at the laden table in shock. "And this stuff won't exactly keep well."

Niko shrugged. "Eat what you feel like and I'll take the rest to a shelter."

He seemed oddly serene about it, and the realization hit Cal suddenly, and for no apparent reason. This spread—this completely unhealthy, very expensive meal—was simply Niko's way of expressing his feelings, of telling Cal without words exactly how glad he was that Cal would be okay.

And Cal was feeling generous as a result of the past few days, so he decided he wasn't going to tease his brother about it.

Well, not right now, anyway.

Grinning, Cal helped himself to the nearest plate and started eating.

XXX

Sam got about halfway through his plate before coming up for air, to find Dean smiling at him for no apparent reason.

"What?" Sam asked slowly, swallowing his bacon.

"Nothing," Dean said, still grinning. "I've just never seen you eat so fast."

Sam shrugged his good shoulder and scooped up a forkful of eggs. "Just hungry."_ Better eating than thinking…_ It was then that he suddenly noticed that the spot on the table in front of Dean was empty. "Uh…why aren't you eating?" he asked. "You don't skip meals."

"Not hungry," Dean said easily.

Sam swallowed another bite and looked curiously at Dean. "I've never seen you not hungry." When Dean just shrugged, Sam put his fork down and said, "C'mon, Dean, spill. What's going on?"

"Can't a guy just be full?" Dean asked, not sounding precisely angry, but more…edgy.

Sam looked at him for a long time, then said quietly, "We're broke, aren't we?"

For a moment he thought he wasn't going to get an answer, but then Dean said, "I wasn't gonna say anything, but…yeah, a little."

"We're a _little_ broke? How is that possible?"

"Well, I don't pay the motel bill 'til checkout, but we've already been here long enough to max out any of the credit cards. I've been paying for the food with cash, mostly, but we're almost out of that, too—haven't been able to hit any bars. And then there's…"

"My hospital bill," Sam finished when Dean paused.

"Yeah. I figure that's the one I can skip out on if I need to. Dr. Thornton will understand. He understood everything else. That's still so weird to me…" Sam, though, only looked away, and Dean sighed. "Look, don't worry about it, okay? I'll take care of it."

"What, so I'm just baggage now?" Sam snapped, more angrily than he'd meant to. "I'm just supposed to sit here useless while you go around sheltering me from all the big, bad things in the world?"

"Sam, no," Dean said instantly. "That's always how it works. The whole money deal is my thing. Remember? Sammy?"

The last word drained all the fight out of him, and Sam averted his eyes and murmured, "I'm gonna go take a shower."

"Sam…"

"I'm fine, Dean. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. I just…really need to shower. And brush my teeth."

"Okay," Dean said, not sounding entirely convinced. "Let me know if you need any help."

"I think I can shower on my own, Dean." He pushed himself to his feet and headed for the bathroom, then stopped and turned back. "We'll…try to figure out what to do about the money later, huh?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah, Sammy. Sure."

XXX

"Y'know, I think being shot is my least favorite form of injury," Cal announced after he was settled back in his bed again.

"Do you actually have a favorite?" Niko asked, adjusting the pillows before returning to his chair.

"Well, no, but I have a least favorite, and this is it."

"Really? What about that sucking chest wound from two years ago?"

"Hey, at least Rafferty took care of that pretty quickly, and there weren't stitches involved. Stitches and stomach wounds take forever to heal. I mean, it's less time for me, but still."

"And here I thought you would relish the opportunity to spend a few days in bed," Niko said, a glint of real humor appearing for the first time since he and Dean had returned to the motel room and found it empty.

"Nah. It's no fun when you don't even have the choice to get up."

"Your mind is strange to me."

"I know. Fun, isn't it."

"You have no idea how much," Niko said sarcastically.

"Hey, Niko, you're not…blaming anyone for this whole thing, are you?" Cal asked, suddenly serious.

"That took a turn," Niko said.

"Well, I just…I've been thinking about it, is all, and…you're not, are you?"

"Who exactly do you think I would blame?" Niko asked carefully.

"Oh, I dunno. Dean? Sam?" A pause. "You?"

He knew instantly, from the way Niko's shoulders tensed minutely, that he'd touched a nerve. But Niko sounded calm when he said, "We won't talk about this. I should have been there and I wasn't. I know that at least some part of the fault lies with me. I also know that you disagree and how this conversation is going to end."

"So…basically we're done talking about this," Cal summarized.

"Yes. But…you should know that I hold nothing against Sam or Dean. I owe them your life, in point of fact." Niko paused for a moment, and then said, as if to himself. "I'll find a way to repay them…somehow."

"Could start with a simple thanks," Cal said groggily, finally beginning to feel the effects of the pills Niko had given him before putting him back to bed.

"Oh, yes, and you're _so_ well-versed with those particular words," Niko said.

"Thanks is one word. And stop being so mean—this is not how you console the injured."

"No, I believe the large doses of strong medication help to do that."

"Mm…good point. Tired…"

Niko leaned in closer. "Close your eyes."

"Huh? Nik, 're you tryin' to get fresh with me? Ew."

"Your jokes are more off-color than usual. Close your eyes," Niko repeated firmly, and with a muted sigh Cal obeyed. "Good boy. And from there it's just one small step to sleep."

"Mm…you're not funny."

"I'm a little funny. Have a good nap."

"'Kay."

Another quiet sigh, and then Cal drifted off. Niko stayed where he was for a few minutes and then, once he was sure Cal was really asleep, left the room and headed for the phone. Without even a moment's hesitation, he picked it up and dialed.

"Promise, I need a favor."

XXX

"Your turn for the shower."

Dean had been staring fixedly at the table, but at Sam's words he looked up and said, "Kinda random time for a shower, isn't it?"

"Dean, you've been through a lot, and believe me, you smell like it. I _did_—you _do._ Let's try to make that a thing of the past, okay?"

He was smiling, and maybe that was what prompted Dean to get up and head into the bathroom to shower at the crack of noon. He was still smiling when Dean turned back to glance at him, and when he turned away again.

The smile didn't start to fade until Dean closed the bathroom door.

Sam tossed aside the towel he'd been using to dry his hair and sat down on his bed, then fell onto his back, pillowing his injured arm on his stomach and his head on the other arm, and started at the ceiling.

This was…hard. All morning he'd been talking easily to Dean, eating and drinking and smiling when it was appropriate to smile and chuckling when the situation called for it, and he hadn't expected it to be quite this hard.

He wasn't even really sure why he was doing it. He knew he didn't have to, knew he could tell his brother anything, and yet he couldn't help but try and lock away everything he was feeling, if only for a little while.

But now Dean was out of sight—which, admittedly, they'd both needed desperately—and the lock had broken, sending emotions crashing over him in waves and images pouring through his mind. He saw faces, human faces, human eyes with the life going out of them, human bodies falling at his feet, motionless and bloody and dead.

And he saw….Dean. Dean trying to protect him. Dean scared. Dean disappearing in flame. Dean _gone._

And that was just it. He couldn't take it anymore.

He had to get out.

XXX

Things had been hard lately, so when Dean stepped out of the bathroom and found Sam gone again, he could hardly have been blamed for reacting—well, not like a hunter. He didn't pause to think. He didn't call anyone. He didn't make a plan. Like a civilian, he simply pulled on a shirt and ran out the door, leaving it standing open and yelling his brother's name.

He hadn't expected to find his quarry quite so quickly.

Sam was sitting on the hood of the Impala, his hands clasped in his lap, his head bowed low. Dean approached him cautiously, unsure whether Sam intentionally leaving the motel room was good or bad, and slowly levered himself up onto the hood.

"Sammy?"

"I didn't go far." Sam's voice was quiet, hoarse, and he didn't lift his head. "I didn't want to worry you."

Something in his voice bothered Dean, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "Sam…"

"I…I tried…" Sam choked a little and sounded like he was trying to force the words from a closed throat. "I tried to pretend. I wanted to be okay. I wanted to deal with it like you said."

"You're doing fine, Sam."

"No, I'm not!" Sam snapped. His head swung up, and Dean saw what was making him sound so weird—he was crying. "I'm sucking beyond the telling of it! I feel guilty every second and it _hurts._ How would you even know? You shouldn't talk about what you don't understand. You've never…you don't have any _idea_ how I…"

The rest of his sentence was muffled when Dean put an arm around him and drew him close, and after another moment he broke down completely.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I…"

"Shh. I know you didn't. It's okay," Dean murmured absently, before leaning back slightly so that he could look Sam in the eye. "Listen to me, okay? You need to stop expecting so much of yourself. It's not like we're supposed to react to this in a certain way. I've never done this before, either—we're pretty much in the dark here. _Both_ of us."

"I know, but…"

"Shush. You need to know that this isn't about what we do now. This is about you and me, standing side by side, like it always has been and always will be. Just us, okay?"

Sam sniffed. "I…I don't know how to forgive myself for this."

Dean smiled gently at him. "I know."

And then he pulled Sam in again, and held onto him, and waited until he could.

* * *

_Author's Note: I know I made you guys think it would take longer than this for the chapter to come up. Sorry about that—I really didn't think it'd be this easy. But I've had a very productive week. I finished both my papers and wrote this over the last two days—I feel accomplished!_

_So, anyways. This story's turned out to be longer than I'd planned, but it's winding down now. Just the epilogue to come, I think. 'Til then, review, please! _


	13. A Blurb

Chapter 12

An ice cream shop was pretty much the last place anyone would expect to find a psychic at work. Nevertheless, that was where Niko assured Sam and Dean that George King would be, and, as usual, he turned out to be right.

"We don't have to do this," Dean said as he and Sam stood on the sidewalk outside the shop, staring through the window at the pretty young girl who was sitting alone at one of the tables.

He'd been shooting for casual, but he could tell Sam wasn't buying it. In the end, though, Sam just said quietly, "You don't, but I'm pretty sure I do."

Dean huffed and said gruffly, "Yeah, sure I don't. So are we going in, or what?"

Sam's mouth twitched in a small smile. "Now or never, I guess."

George smiled at them when they finally came in, motioning with one hand at the chairs on the other side of her table and nursing an ice cream soda with the other. Sam managed a smile in return as he folded himself into the chair, his arm panging with the reminder that it was past time for pain pills. He hadn't taken them today, wanting a clear head when he talked to George.

"I was wondering if you were going to come in," George said.

Sam looked down, embarrassed. "Yeah, well…"

"I'm glad you did," George said when he trailed off. "How are you feeling?"

"Uh…not to be rude and all, but…don't you know that already?" Dean blurted out. George and Sam both looked at him and Dean stuttered, "Well…I just mean…with Missouri, she…she always knew without asking, and I guess I thought you…"

Sam blushed redder and redder the longer he listened, but George was still smiling, and when Dean fell silent for a moment she explained, "I don't read people without permission. I think feelings are private, and I don't intrude on them unless I'm invited to."

"Must be nice to be able to turn it on and off like that," Sam said, a tad more bitterly than he'd planned.

"It can be. But it's also a practice in restraint and a great deal of temptation. Still, I've always been able to control it. I have no idea what it would be like to have it otherwise. I'm guessing it's less than fun, though."

"Yeah, not to mention painful," Sam muttered to himself. At George's understanding look and Dean's sympathetic expression, he felt embarrassment flutter in his stomach. "I'm sorry—I'm not usually this…angsty."

"He's not," Dean chimed in. "Just on the days that someone sneezes or the days that end in Y."

George grinned at that, her laughter ringing through the quiet shop. "Don't worry. Cal's a close friend of mine, so I'm used to it."

Dean couldn't seem to help himself—he grinned and asked, "How close?"

"_Dean,"_ Sam whispered, mortified.

"What? Just…making conversation."

"Is that what you came for?" George asked, ignoring Dean's question entirely. "To make conversation?"

"Well….not exactly," Sam admitted. "Not like this, anyway. I just…I needed to see you. To meet you. And I was also…I was wondering it…"

"Sam," George cut him off gently. "Did you come for a reading?"

Dean glanced at him and was starting to reply the negative when Sam said, "Yes." Dean's eyebrows went up, and Sam shot him an apologetic look before repeating it. "Yes."

George didn't bother to ask if he was sure. She just reached out, picked up one of his hands in both of hers, closed her eyes, and then there were a few moments of silence while Dean squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Then she let go, sat back in her chair, and said simply, "Your life hasn't been easy."

"Um…no. Not…exactly," Sam said slowly, a little puzzled. "It never is…for hunters."

"It won't be getting easier," George said softly. "And in fact, it will get harder."

"Well, that's always nice to hear," Dean said sarcastically.

"I'm sorry, but I don't sugarcoat the truth unless people want me to. It's not going to be easy for you—either of you. There are dark times ahead—dark even to me."

"Anyone ever tell you that talking to you is kinda like reading the sun? Could you be more specific?" Dean asked, smoothly taking the reigns of the conversation since Sam seemed frozen to his seat.

"I wish I could," George said with genuine regret. "But all I can get is a general picture. I _can_ tell you something that you both already know—you need to stick together, always."

"You were right. We already knew that."

"And it's good that you do, because what's to come is going to damage you both. You'll be tempted to separate, and sometimes you'll want to so much you can barely stand it. I know you can't imagine what would make you want to leave each other, but that won't last."

"But…but we know that now," Dean said, feeling startlingly like he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him. "So we can…"

"Dean, there are some things that can't be altered, whether you see them coming or not," George told him gently. Then she reached out and picked up each of their hands in one of hers—but not for a reading this time. Instead, she just looked at each of them and said, "There is no light at the end of the tunnel." Her next words she spoke as if to herself. "And sometimes, the only thing more painful than seeing the light…is being the light."

XXX

"I think we should go on a hunt."

Sam hadn't said a word the entire way back to the motel, so his blurting this out as he closed the door behind him took Dean a little by surprise.

Okay, a lot by surprise.

"Uh…sorry?"

"I think we should go on a hunt," Sam repeated, sitting down on his bed and popping open his bottle of pills.

Dean sat down on his own bed and asked, "Where's this coming from, kid?"

"Does it matter? We've been here for almost three weeks, Dean. We never stay in one place that long. You're itching to get out and it probably won't be long before I am, too. So we should…ya know…get out."

"Sam, look at you," Dean said. "Your arm is still killing you, I can tell. And besides, you…you're not…I mean, can you even—?"

"Dean," Sam said "I know what you're trying to ask, and…maybe not yet, but we can start off small. I can research. I just…I need to get back in the game. George—some of the things she said made me realize how much I need to do this. Please?"

Dean hesitated, then asked, "You'll stick to research?"

"Yeah."

"And stay away from fighting for a while?"

"That, too."

"And this is….what you want to do?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "It really is. We're in the business of saving lives, Dean, and that hasn't changed, no matter what I've…" Sam cut himself off, shook his head, look up to meet Dean's gaze. "Please?"

Dean studied him for a long time, then sighed and said, "Okay. We'll hunt."

* * *

_Author's Note: Okay, I lied. Sue me. But I realized that George hadn't made an appearance in this story, and besides, I needed some transition. That said, I _promise_ that the next chapter will be the epilogue. Really this time!_


	14. Epilogue

Epilogue

"Are you sure about this?"

Sam looked over at Dean and smiled indulgently. "I'm sure, Dean. Now stop asking."

Dean grumbled and tossed his duffel into the trunk before shutting it. "Fine, whatever." Then he paused, looked at Sam again, and said seriously, "But if you start feeling shaky about it, you _tell_ me, all right?"

Sam was about to answer when a disgruntled voice called, "If you're gonna drag us out of bed at the crack of dawn to say goodbye, you could at least, ya know, _say goodbye."_

The brothers turned just in time to see Niko frown at Cal and even half-raise a hand to smack him on the head before seeming to catch himself and lowering it. His scolding, though, was perfectly audible from there.

"It's ten o'clock in the morning, I've been up for hours. When will we manage to kick this laziness of yours?"

"I'm _injured!"_ Cal protested.

"Yes, and also annoying. Do you think there's any chance of that healing as well, given time?"

Cal rolled his eyes, his arm protecting his stomach, quite obviously relying on Niko to keep him upright and steady, whether he was willing to admit it or not. "Whatever. I'm just saying that I don't see why we're here, is all."

"Well, you can leave anytime," Dean said lightly as he and Sam reached them.

"We just thought that since you and I took turns nearly getting each other killed, we should mention the fact that we're leaving town," Sam added, not exactly sounding as if he was joking.

"Hey, I did _not_ nearly get you killed. Nik just roughed you up a little. And me getting shot wasn't exactly your fault, either."

"Oh, it definitely was," Sam said, and Dean frowned at him darkly before turning back to Cal and Niko.

"So…uh…it was good seeing you guys again, I guess," he said awkwardly, not really knowing what else to say. He was just no _good_ at stuff like this…especially since he wasn't entirely sure he meant it.

Ca. grinned. "Relax, man. Feeling's mutual."

"Uh…what feeling?"

"The feeling that whenever the four of us meet up, things get bloody," Cal explained casually. "Which means we'll never be able to honestly say it's good to see each other. That feeling."

"Oh. Well, as long as we know that—" Dean shrugged and turned to clap Sam on the shoulder. "C'mon, Sammy, let's hit the road."

He was following Sam to the car when something occurred to him, and he stopped and turned. "By the way, here's something interesting. When we checked out, the guy told us our bill was already paid." He looked closely as he spoke, but no change of expression registered on either face. "And when I called the doctor who helped us, he mentioned that someone paid Sam's bill in full, and then some." He paused and looked a little closer, but still there were no visible signs of recognition. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that…would you?"

Niko seemed to think about it, then said simply, "No."

"Huh." Dean started to turn away again, but then he stopped and said seriously, "Thanks."

If Niko thought it was about time, he didn't let on.

XXX

"Think we'll see them again?"

Dean looked in the rearview mirror as he pulled out of the parking lot and watched Niko start helping Cal toward the taxi that was waiting for them. For some reason the sight warmed him, felt familiar, and he couldn't bring himself to gloss it over.

"I think, Sammy, that we'll keep on meeting up with them whether we like it or not. We're stuck with them just like we're stuck with each other." He grinned at his brother, only to find Sam staring at him with something akin to wonder. "What?"

Sam shook his head, still not losing that awed expression. "You're really not leaving, are you?"

Once again, Dean felt the urge to pretend he didn't know what the question meant—but Sam didn't deserve that. "No, Sammy. I'm here to stay."

Sam smiled, and Dean returned his eyes to the road.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"It's Sam."

Dean's hands tightened convulsively on the wheel, his eyes whipping over to Sam's face. His smiling, earnest, _happy_ face.

It had been too long since Dean had seen that face, and his laughter—and Sam's, another thing thought lost—filled the Impala as they left New York behind.

* * *

_Author's Note: Okay, that really is it for this story! Thank you so much, everybody, for reading and reviewing, especially considering how long this story got!_


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